


Beyond the Rim: Agents of Light

by Jameson9101322



Series: Beyond the Rim [2]
Category: Babylon 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Afterlife, Gen, Minbari, Politics, agents of light
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-01-28 21:09:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12615568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jameson9101322/pseuds/Jameson9101322
Summary: In the short time John Sheridan has spent growing accustomed to life beyond death, he has fought monsters, faced personal demons, and reconnected with old friends. Now it's time to do his part in the service of Lorien as one of his many Agents of Light. But despite being groomed for his task by a life of racial and political conflict, Sheridan's first day on the job proves more difficult -- and less predictable --  than he or any of his guides or companions expected.





	1. Coffee as the Universe Rises

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2 of the Beyond the Rim AU. If you haven't read part 1, it's essential to understand the lore of the AU. I highly advise clicking the series link and reading Beyond the Rim: Sheridan before starting this installment.

Pink light wrapped the skyline, illuminating the many rooftops and towers of Lorien City. The afterlife was perfect except for one missing thing... Delenn. Her portrait hung at John Sheridan's bedside. He turned from the window to face her. She was still with the living, and in that respect the other side of the rim still had it better. Sheridan kissed his fingertips and pressed them to Delenn's sheepish smile. His heart ached, but each new day was a day closer to the one they'd be together again. And life beyond the rim wasn't so bad. 

The hangers in Sheridan's closet held everything from the Army of Light uniform he arrived in, to the suits and slacks of his presidency, to his Entil'za robes pressed and folded according to anla-shok tradition. Those were the outfits that appeared with his house the day the Babylon 5 neighborhood was created, but his mom took him shopping last week so that stuff was in there too, and Valen bought him a Team Lorien baseball cap as a joke, and Londo gifted a whole Centauri-style ensemble for a party the two attended. No matter how many outfits he added there was always enough room, which was good because sometimes random items popped in completely out of nowhere. 

Such an outfit was waiting for him when he opened the door; a charcoal-colored business suit with a shirt and loose tie like the young entrepreneurs were wearing back on Earth. It was something out of a modern magazine and made Sheridan snort. He was a president, not a stock broker. He wouldn't be caught dead in something like this... except he was about to be, because the universe didn't provide things without a reason – a casual reminder that the space around him was as alive and sentient and humorous as everyone else. 

The suit fit perfectly, of course. His face fit it, too, because he was looking closer to thirty years-old than he had the previous day. Adira told him his second day dead that people's appearances usually settle into a 'normal' with some wiggle room for mood. In the four weeks since his passing, he'd adopted what he considered the “Babylon 5” look; clean shaven and a little weary, but not yet going gray. This was probably thanks to living in the Babylon 5 neighborhood, considering the one night he spent visiting the Minbar region gave him back his beard.  
Sheriden poured himself some coffee and stepped from his cozy house into the pale light of early morning. A jogger plodded by – nobody he recognized. The windows in his friends' homes were curtained and dark. Sheridan cupped his coffee in both hands and walked beneath the suspended model of Babylon 5 on his way to “hydroponics,” which in this world was a public park and communal garden at the heart of the township. 

Sheridan spent a lot of time in the greenery, especially these early hours before the sun was up. He and Delenn used to watch the dawn together when they were in the same place. He navigated a hedge maze and emerged in the zen stone garden just as the outer arm of the know universe ascended into view. Sheridan took the bench and sipped his coffee with a sigh. He knew it wasn't the same dawn. There was no telling what time of day it was back home on Minbar but it helped him feel closer to her, and it was nice just knowing that the ball of light on the horizon contained her somewhere in it. 

Leaves rustled behind him. Sheridan turned to find Lennier three respectful steps back with his hands folded in front of chest of his anla-shok uniform. “Good morning, President Sheridan.”

Sheridan frowned, “Mr. Lennier.”

“I hope I am not disturbing you.” 

“No, no.” Sheridan set his coffee on the bench and rose. “I was just watching the sunrise.”

Lennier's smile wilted. “You were thinking of her.”

Delenn was a point of connection and departure for he and Lennier. The zen garden at dawn was the one place Sheridan felt close to her. The last thing he wanted was to stain it with resentment. “She's my wife, Lennier. I'm always thinking of her.”

"As am I." The last of Lennier's humor vanished. “Please do not misunderstand, I did not come here to chafe old wounds.”

“But you came here on purpose.”

“I have.” He bowed. “I was sent to you.”

“Sent?” The suit Sheridan was wearing felt tight all of a sudden. “By who?”

A tiny smirk tugged the edge of Lennier's prominent brow. “How about we walk together and we can discuss it.”

Sheridan hesitated. He didn't want to leave, but the moment was spoiled either way, and whatever conversation they were having, somewhere else was probably best. “Alright.” 

The two meandered through the garden. All sorts of humans and aliens were already up, taking a stroll before breakfast -- or for the nocturnal, right before bed. Flowering trees and green hedgerows swelled in the glow of the rising universe. Food grew as well, although like his father's farm in the new Illinois, this hydroponics garden was more passion than chore. A human pulled weeds from a tomato patch just ahead. His body implied age, but he bent and stood as easily as a young man in his prime. A young girl who was probably centuries older than Sheridan picked flowers near the path. She skipped away as the tomato farmer left the patch on an old bicycle. Her flowers grew back, but his weeds did not. 

Sheridan tugged his coat again. The Rim had the weirdest rules, but they were all for the sake of peoples' convenience. A week ago he left his stove on by accident while watching the sunrise and came back to find it off with the kettle still on. It happened to others, too, although rarely with witnesses. Once Sheridan watched Marcus's front door close on its own after he left in a hurry, and saw Adira stack a pile of G'Kar's papers only for them to unstack themselves after she left. Not to say people couldn't make mistakes. Misremembering things, putting your foot in your mouth, dropping stuff. It all seemed so natural but in many ways... unreal. Sheridan drew a long sigh. "Do you ever get used to it, Lennier?"

"Used to what, Captain?"

"This... weirdness." Sheridan gestured to the skyline. "I've been here a month and it still doesn't feel normal."

"A month is not very long when you consider eternity."

"I guess you have a point, there."

"Do not worry," Lennier said. "Growing accustomed is not the same thing as familiar. I find I am grateful for the plasticity of this place. We never know what will happen, but we rarely feel unsafe. Peace is not passive. Life would grow wearisome if it couldn't surprise you.”

"Hmph," Sheridan grunted. "It's just proof it's not real."

"And are you real, John Sheridan? You are the same as everything else is." 

"You mean dead." 

"You are not dead." 

“Last I checked I was pretty dead.” 

“Not by the definition you assume,” Lennier said. “Death only has context to things that decay. This existence -- you and I -- are pure life, as we always have been. We are not physical bodies we inhabited. That life was a transition, like a chrysalis. We are souls on both sides, made of will, and heart, and experience.” 

Sheridan snorted. "That's something Delenn would say."

"We were trained in similar rhetoric.” Lennier grinned. “Although it's nice to hear I in any way resemble her, although I do not deserve it. For years on either side of the Rim I've longed to follow her path to honor and wisdom." 

"She had a lot of both. I mean she _has_ a lot." Sheridan shook his head. "I'm the one who died."

“You are _not_ dead.” The Minbari halted, hands folded, and began again with a long, calming breath. "President Sheridan, your recent transition is still fresh in your mind, so I understand being disheartened. I miss Delenn as well, but that does not invalidate you as a person. There is much in this realm to live and fight for. Can you not see it?”

“It's... hard,” Sheridan admitted. "There's still a lot to process. It's been good sharing a street with you all, though. Every time I see a face I knew I'm reminded of what we fought for. And died for in many cases. Man, it's weird to say." 

“That's the kind of people we are. You as well. Your sacrifice on Z'ha'dum eventually led to you joining us.”

“That feels like a long time ago.”

“Would you do it again?”

Sheridan's stomach turned. He'd asked himself the same question many times in the last twenty years, and the question kept getting harder and harder to answer. What would have happened if he had not gone to Z'ha'dum? Would he have lived to die of old age? Or would the Shadows have destroyed them all? Preventing such an outcome was always worth the sacrifice. Sheridan nodded slowly and resumed their walk along the path. “Yes I would.”

Lennier fell in a step behind him. “Would you do it now?” 

“What?”

“If the mortal realm were in danger, would you leap to its defense?”

“And how would I do that? We can't go back to the living world.”

“I have,” Lennier said. “While you still lived, I visited you and Delenn on Minbar."

Sheridan took a double take. "You what?” 

“You didn't see me. It was in spirit.” 

“Like... a ghost?" 

It was Lennier's turn to snort. "Not quite a ghost, really."

"Then how?" Sheridan demanded, his heart in spasms. "Did someone send you? Was it a Vorlon? Kosh said he could send me but I'd lose myself – " 

"Lorien did." Lennier's face steeled, as if Sheridan had said something offensive. "Come, I should take you back."

“Back where?”

“To the zen garden.” Lennier quickened their pace. “I've heard all I need.”

They rushed along the various paths, beneath an arbor of fruit-bearing trees, and around a fountain back to the community garden where a Drazi with a tunic was picking the tomatoes. They entered the hedge maze adjacent to the zen garden. Sheridan slowed to a stop. “Wait.”

Lennier's jaw clenched as he turned.

“You said when you showed up that someone sent you, and the last time you came to me dressed as a Ranger, it was because Lorien sent you to protect me.” Sheridan glared from beneath furrowed brows. “He's testing me, right? ” 

Lennier sighed. “I was sent to gauge the state of your heart. You've been coping well, so we thought –“ He shook his head and dropped his folded hands to his sides. “You are still grieving, and that's alright. There's nothing wrong with taking the time that you need. I was optimistic, which is a credit to your strength more than any error of my judgment. We can speak again another time.”

"If he's afraid I was going to ask to be passed on, he's wrong,” Sheridan said. “I have no interest in losing my memories. Until Delenn joins us, those memories are all I have. You tell Lorien when you see him that I won't give up living for those who matter to me. That includes David, and Delenn, and David's kids if he has them, and their kids, and theirs... and the children of my friends, and their loved ones and relatives for generations to come. Even you and the souls on this side of things with me. You all need protection from men becoming monsters and crazy mystical happenstance and whatever else. Just because I'm sad doesn't mean I'm defeated. Will you tell him that for me?”

“He doesn't have to.” Lorien's voice called from within the zen garden. The oldest being appeared in the doorway, wearing layers of robes and sashes about his long, slender frame. “I have listened to every word.”

“Then what do you want from me?” Sheridan asked. “Why'd you send Lennier here as a middle man?”

“Because he thought this was a good time.”

“Good time for what?”

“Your first day on the job.” Lorien's frown cracked in a smirk. “And I think he was right.”

“Apologies,” Lennier interrupted with a bow. “In light of this interview rescind my recommendation. Sheridan's will is strong, but his heart is still hurting. It needs longer before he can face field work.”

Sheridan's pulse doubled. “Field work?”

“I appreciate your careful consideration, Lennier, but I think you're being too cautious.” 

“It is for the good of the man and both halves of this universe,” Lennier insisted. “Another opportunity will come. Let this assignment pass to me. I will take it in his stead.”

“Assignment, hold on – ” Sheridan stepped between the two men. “Is this about the Army of Light?”

“Yes, John. The Army of Light,” Lorien smiled. “Weeks ago you agreed to be one of my agents. I know you to be smart, brave, and self-sacrificing. A place at my side has waited for you for decades and this, my bold friend, is your first day enrolled in my service.”


	2. Jobs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sheridan gets first day orientation.

It was the first time Sheridan was allowed through one of Lorien's white doorways. It wasn't quite like traveling by Vorlon. Stepping in sent tingles through his body, as if it was taking stock of all his particles for some later use.

He emerged in a rust-colored space with stone formations and high arched ceilings. It reminded him of the cave he woke up in that day he cheated death on Z'ha'dum and met Lorien. The oldest person in the universe, Lorien had lived there for who knows how many centuries prior to their meeting, yet Sheridan was surprised to find it recreated beyond the rim. For some reason he'd always thought of it as Lorien's prison. 

"Huh," Sheridan asked as Lorien followed through the light. “Is this like your house?”

"More like my bases of operations." Lorien seemed younger on this side of his portal, or perhaps that was because he'd removed his outer robe. “It's on a higher plane between life and death than you're used to existing. Makes for a closer commute than the city.”

“What does that mean?”

“Do you recall that field of light we paused in when I came to fetch your soul?”

“Yeah.”

“If the border between life and death were a bridge over a river, that white space would exist in the center with equal distance on either side. There, you have only the path to stand on with infinite space on all sides. This place is also on the bridge, but near the side of the spiritual. You've visited its twin on the other side as well.”

“That place did seem kind of unreal.”

“Oh it was real.” Lorien chuckled. “It felt more like home than the rest of that world.”

Lennier came through the portal as well, looking slightly annoyed. He folded his arms in his sleeves. The door sealed behind him. “May I be dismissed to my preparations?”

“Yes you may. Pay close attention, for I've made changes to your orders,” Lorien said. “Also, I've assigned Neroon as your partner.”

Lennier's annoyance increased. “With due respect. Marcus and I – ”

“You need another Minbari for this one.”

“Then perhaps someone of the religious caste?”

“Neroon IS religious,” Lorien wagged a finger at him. “You're both soldiers of faith. It will be fine.” 

Lennier's jaw muscle flexed. He stood rigid a moment, then bowed with hands folded. “As you wish, sir.”

Sheridan empathized with Lennier. Neroon proved more than a bit of a bastard in life, and it was never cool to be forced out of a working partnership. Sheridan and lowered his voice and leaned toward Lorien. “Neroon? Really?”

“Yes, he's one of my more dedicated agents.” Lorien replied. “He wanted a chance to live at his full potential.”

“But Neroon... he tried to kill Delenn.”

“And then died in her place." Lorien led Sheridan deeper into the cave. "Neroon threw himself on a sword for others, as most of my agents did. As you did. To value life and die bravely are traits I value very highly in an Agent. It takes that kind of person to do what needs to be done.”

"What needs to be done, huh?" 

People of all different races gathered in the halls and adjoining chambers, examining papers, tablets and holographic displays. Lorien gestured around them. “Look at the faces around you. Each of these souls have volunteered themselves into the service of the living. They risk their lives to help repair the damage the older races did in their history of war.”

“This is about the Shadow War?”

“All the Shadow Wars,” Lorien said. “The old races disobeyed the will of the universe when they meddled with the paths of the younger. That influence harmed your people, your homes, and your timelines. When the old races agreed to retreat beyond the Rim, I was given permission to start making amends.”

They entered a center chamber filled with holographic display screens. Vorlons hovered near the roof where tickers moved in lighted script with other agents surrounding a large console. Three-dimensional maps and graphs rotated overhead. Sheridan searched the Agents for people he recognized, but all were strangers. Some were dressed as Rangers, but even those could have easily been hundreds if not thousands of years old. According to Lorien, they were heroes from the past joining together to help save the future. Sheridan's chest swelled with pride in his fellow souls. “This is why you called it the Army of Light. It's an extension of the war we fought together.”

Lorien smiled. “I hope that was alright.”

“I didn't think so before. The Army of Light was something we forged together to help save the universe. We hoped it would be our legacy I guess.” He smirked. “But seeing all this and hearing what you've made it into... I think Delenn would approve.”

“Good. I'd hate to disappoint her.” Lorien smiled and continued onto an observation platform above the center console. A Vorlon hovered at the controls, but moved when Lorien waved a hand over the panels and the configuration rearranged. “Here." Lorien beckoned Sheridan to his side. "Let me explain the basics of your new role as an agent before I tell you about your first assignment.”

Three panels rose from the configuration. The language printed was foreign, but Sheridan understood the words as plainly as if they were in English. 

Lorien must have read the thought in his facial expression. “Enjoy the understanding while you can. When you get back to the mortal realm you'll be limited to what you've studied.”

Butterflies swarmed in Sheridan's stomach. “I'm going back to the mortal realm?”

“Only for a visit, but don't be distracted." Lorien gestured to the panels. "There are three types of jobs Agents can take, X'lzja, X'ljen, and X'lxua, each with advantages and disadvantages depending on the situation. For tutorial's sake I'll use the terms the humans invented for them, although many of the other races and I agree they're a little crass for something as significant as rising from the dead.” 

The panels shifted to display illustrations of a humanoid figure; one in which they stood alone on a panel, one in which the figure enveloped another smaller figure, and one with the figure drawn in dashed lines to imply transparancy.

“There body jobs, skin jobs, and spirit jobs,” Lorien defined as he pointed. “Body jobs are when agents get a new body, skin jobs are when they assume the role of a living person, and spirit jobs are visits in spirit only – like ghosts.”

“Lennier mentioned one of those,” Sheridan said. “You sent him to Minbar.”

“Yes, I remember. That was for the benefit of your son.”

“My son?” 

“David was reconsidering his petition to the Rangers,” Lorien said. “It was a couple years ago. He didn't tell you at the time. He thought it would disappoint you.”

“I had no idea he felt that way.” Sheridan's heart clenched with guilt and sadness. “I thought he could tell me anything.”

“He was nervous. You know how teenagers are. And being the son of two Entil'zas is quite a legacy to measure up to.”

“But we didn't care what career he chose,” Sheridan insisted. “I mean, sure I was proud he picked the Rangers but any path would have been fine. I just want him to be happy.” 

“I know you did, and so does he.” Lorien warmed. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. I only brought it up in answer to your question. Lennier would have been recognized on Minbar, so I sent him to visit David as a spirit to speak to him in a dream. Dreams are a good way to communicate openly without calling our presence into question.” 

“So you influenced his decision?”

“We offered him guidance,” Lorien said. “Our job is not to force our will, that is perpetuating the problems we intend to solve. Only in desperate situations do we take such direct charge. Lennier experienced similar doubts in life and volunteered to offer counsel, but it was David's job to choose whether to keep his oath or not. And you can see that he did. Your son is still a Ranger and off to great and wonderful things, just as the universe intended for him.” 

Sheridan released a troubled sigh. “I guess I owe you and Lennier a 'thank you.'”

“We're merely keeping things on course,” Lorien replied. “That's what I have planned for you to do, today.”

“I'm to visit someone in a dream?”

“Spirit jobs are for more experienced agents. Being without a body on the other side is jarring to say the least. Agents on those jobs must know a bit about how to find their own way back, and there's a risk of getting lost,” Lorien said. “No, I'm sending you on a body job today. That means you'll be traveling the mortal realm in a temporary body made of local materials.”

Lorien dismissed the other two job types and raised the display reading X'lzja with the illustration of a man standing alone. A holographic image of Sheridan appeared, wearing his universe-provided gray blazer and slacks. 

Sheridan scoffed and adjusted his loose tie. “The job comes with a uniform, huh?” 

“The body is shaped by the mental perception you have of yourself, just like it is on this side.” Lorien spun the hologram. “The bodies are fully functioning, but have a limited lifespan. Body jobs must be completed within the scope of their short lives or the soul inside will die.”

“You mean come back here?”

“No, I mean die.” Lorien lowered his voice. “Individuals can only die twice; once in body and once in soul. You've used your bodily death already. Dying again on either side of the Rim is an automatic reincarnation. Your life energy loses identity and returns to the cycle.”

“That's why you said these people risk their lives before.” Sheridan's jaw clenched. “It's not like being hurt on this side. If we cross to the mortal realm, there's a risk we won't come back.”

“That's correct. Body jobs are the most versatile but present the greatest risk to the agent. Death to time, death to violence, death to accident... it's all fatal to the soul inhabiting the temporary shell.”

“That seems like quite a gamble.”

“It is, but inhabiting a new body allows you to take any role that fits the mission. You can interact with the world anonymously... unless you have a very distinct and recognizable face of course.”

“I was the president of the known universe.”

“True, but you've got the element of surprise on your side.” Humor glinted in Lorien's eye. “No one is expecting to see thirty-five year-old John Sheridan wandering around a month past his death.” 

“I guess that's true.”

“Just don't stand next to a lot of pictures of yourself.” Lorien handed him a tablet readout. “Here's your assumed name and the role you're intended to play. Another team has gone ahead of you to lay all the groundwork. You are Thomas Sheridan – it's a common enough name, I thought you could keep it – a cultural adviser to Earth Force from a private company called Interstellar Consultants.”

Sheridan confirmed this in the readouts. “That was the best name you could come up with?”

“Bland is better. No one questions bland,” Lorien replied. “You and your partner have been hired by Earth Force as an impartial third party in negotiations between Earthdome and an isolated sect of the Minbari religious caste occupying a wide portion of unexplored space.”

"Racial tension, huh?” Sheridan asked. “Who's my partner?”

Lorien grinned. “I'm glad you asked.”

A second man joined them on the raised platform. He was similar to Sheridan in height and build, wearing an identical outfit of coat and slacks. Just like the day Sheridan passed beyond the Rim, it took the eyebrows for recognition to finally take hold. “Jeff?”

“Hello again, John.” Jeffrey Sinclair ran a hand over a full head of brown hair. “We've got to stop meeting like this.”


	3. Near Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stepping from life to death is harder on the soul than passing through one of Lorien's lighted doors.

Stepping from life to death was not as simple as walking through one of Lorien's lighted doorways. The portal slid open in thin air, transitioning Sheridan and Sinclair from Lorien's headquarters into the white void that marked the transition between the mortal and immortal worlds. Lorien followed them through the doorway into the endless expanse of white. “Now, are you boys clear on the details of your mission?”

“We're to intercept the Earth Force ambassadors and assist them in negotiations with the Honored Ground sect of Tha'domo monks,” Sinclair said. “They're guarding sacred ground, Earth Force wants to traverse it with a goal of exploration.”

Lorien nodded. “Your success state is for negotiations to fall in Earth's favor. A support team will be deployed shortly to help work the situation from the opposite side. These monks will not be easy to convince, but I have confidence your combined experience with both Earth Force and the religious caste will make quick work of it. An excellent first outing for our good friend John.” Lorien gripped Sheridan by the shoulder. “Remember to take care of yourselves. Don't get in any fights or anything. This is a talking mission, not a punching mission.”

Sheridan shook his head. “With the threat of perma-death dangling over me, I promise I won't forget.”

“You better not. Once you emerge in the mortal realm, I'll be unable to remind you.” 

“Radio silence?”

“Body jobs are a commitment. Once implemented there is extremely limited communication with this side. I will be monitoring your progress, but you will be unable to return,” Lorien said. “And there is something else. You must maintain the sanctity of the afterlife while you are on the other side. No explaining where you came from or how you got there. That includes your loved ones. I know the thought has already occurred to you.”

Sheridan's mouth went dry. His stomach flipped as he stared into Lorien's penetrating eyes. 

Lorien leveled a finger at him. “Listen well to this warning. You are never to interact with people you know on the living side unless it is part of your mission. The effects could be catastrophic and damaging to the ones you speak to more than anyone else. Do you understand me?”

Sheridan gulped. “Yeah, sure.”

“Say you do.”

“I understand you,” Sheridan said. “They wouldn't know who Thomas Sheridan was anyway.”

“Good.” Lorien glanced to Sinclair. “I want you both back safe and sound, you hear?”

“Don't even pause to worry.” Sinclair elbowed Sheridan in the arm. “I'll keep him on a tight leash.”

“With that, I suppose that means you're off to work.” Lorien waved a hand to open another lighted door. “I have faith in you both. Return to me soon.”

He entered and left the two standing in the void. Sheridan's insides were still knotting as the light of the celestial bridge swelled around his feet. It caused a tingle, then a burning as it clawed its way up Sheridan's body. Atoms like sand sifted into place, twisting into nerves and muscles with sparks of white fire. Pain radiated down his brand new arms and legs. The shock made him yelp, but his lungs did not exist yet. He gasped, seized with panic until he fell to his knees on a tile floor. 

Sinclair stood above him with an insufferable smirk. “Didn't tell you about that part, did he?”

“What...” Sheridan sucked frigid air in his chest, accentuating the ache still throbbing through him. “What?”

“Don't worry, it gets easier.” Sinclair dragged him up by the arm. 

Vertical movement made Sheridan dizzy enough to be nauseous. He gripped the sink mounted into the wall and realized they were in a public restroom just in time for him to find the toilet and brace himself against the rim. 

Sinclair leaned on the stall door. “You shouldn't have anything in there, you haven't eaten with that stomach yet.”

Sheridan's insides settled before he had to find out if Sinclair was right. At least the presence of a toilet meant they were sincerely in the mortal world, as if feeling awful wasn't proof enough. “What _was_ that?” He staggered, astounded by how heavy his own body felt. “I mean I know what it was but what _was_ that?”

“You've been reconstituted. A handful of chemicals, just add water.”

“Har har.” Sheridan cleared his throat to relieve a rasp in his voice. “I thought it would be like water and light and stuff... like dying.”

“This isn't dying. This is being born,” Sinclair raised an eyebrow. “Life is a violent and traumatic thing. Also bodies are awful in general.” 

"I won't argue with that right now." Sheridan realized that the throbbing in his chest was his actual heartbeat. “You said it gets better... does it lessen or do you get used to it?”

“Knowing that it's coming takes a lot of the edge off, but it never really feels good. It's hard to descend back into an imperfect state after evolving past it, but you've done it once and next time you'll know.” He shook his head. “If I was nicer I would have warned you. Consider this a hazing.”

“You do this to all the new recruits?”

“Only the ones I like.” Sinclair patted Sheridan on the back. “Lorien dumped a lot of heavy stuff on you, but nothing's going to prepare you for what's actually going on here. We don't have eternity anymore, we've got to live in the moment. How do you feel?” 

“Fine.” Sheridan lied, but only a bit. “Better.”

“Good, let's go.”

The two stepped out of the public restroom and into a busy spaceport. The sense of smell and sound were weirdly foreign on Sheridan's new sense organs – more so than the sights, which resembled the afterlife as much as the afterlife resembled them. The reversal ironically highlighted how accustomed he'd grown to being beyond the rim without even realizing it had happened. He even kind of missed it. There was a sense of love and protection permeating that world, leaving the space around them cold by comparison. 

A silky female voice interrupted his troubled thoughts. “There you fella's are.”

“Heads up, it's our advanced guard,” Sinclair said. “Ms. Alexander, Ms. Winters.”

“Mr. Sikes,” a second, more familiar voice said. Sheridan looked up to see Lyta Alexander grinning smugly with her hands on her hips. “How you doin' newbie?”

“Lyta?” Sheridan recognized the first speaker as well. “Talia!”

“Charmed,” the blonde said with a nod. “Sorry I missed your big welcome party. Lyta said it was a ball.”

“If by that you mean it was rolling faster than I could keep up,” Sheridan said. “Should we really be talking about it out in the open?”

“I see Lorien put the proper fear in you,” Talia mused. “These people have no idea what we're talking about, and even if they did, we could make them forget.”

“Do we have powers like that? Or is it because you're still telepaths?” 

Talia laughed. “Telepaths, of course, how else do you think we'd establish an entire consulting firm in two weeks?”

“Speaking of... here.” Lyta handed Sinclair a folder. “IDs, credits, and plane tickets. Don't forget to hand out business cards, it enforces your image. Plus, I recorded a hilarious 'out of the office' message in case anyone calls.”

Sinclair's lip twitched in subtle amusement. “Anything else we need to know?”

“There was a snag getting your license validated in the Minbari cross-references,” Talia reported. “You still have credibility, but less than you could. We put roots for you with twelve of the allgined worls including the Narn, Brakiri, and Gaim as well as the Abbai in case this religious order is concerned about your capacity for respect and fairness.”

Sinclair flipped through the pages. “Good work.”

“Officially you are Thomas Sheridan and Jeffrey Sikes,” Lyta said. “A mid-level manager and his corporate protege hired by Earth Dome to assist the military. In roughly twenty minutes you will board commercial transport IA-950 and rendezvous with the EAS Madisonville on its way to the Honored Ground in sector 848.”

“Lyta and I will remain deployed for the duration of your mission,” Talia said. “If you need anything call extension 18913 on the number on your business cards, it patches into our private line.”

“The Minbari are already in place, they checked in a few minutes ago,” Lyta said. “They report tension already just knowing you all are coming, but couldn't go into detail. The sect allows no transmissions within the monastery. Call in a report on them when you get one. They're in disguise, so don't bother finding them, they'll find you.”

“So we're taking a ship to another ship to a monastery,” Sheridan repeated. “Lorien said these talks are about exploration.”

“Shh, that's confidential,” Lyta replied. “Let the commanding officer tell you what you're there for, the information they provided us in their manifest was purposefully vague. Some digging revealed Earth Force wants to establish a permanent outpost along the cutting edge of known space. Examining the gaps in their net, it's highly likely these talks are going to be about claims on that sector of space.”

“The two of us know a thing about treaties and quite a bit about Earth Force,” Sinclair said. “I'm sure we can manage.”

“Earth Force has changed a lot since you were involved in it, Mr. Valen,” Talia prodded. “They employ telepaths now. Don't rest on your laurels, you've had bad luck with other people reading your soul.”

Sinclair steeled. “If you're trying to impress me, it's not going to work.”

“Just being helpful.” She nudged Lyta. “Let's let these boys go, they've got a lot of studying to do.”

Lyta relaxed in agreement. “Good luck, Sheridan. We're rooting for you.” 

Sheridan could tell she was sincere without reading her mind. “Thanks.”

Lyta winked and turned to Talia. “Camp at the bar?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Babylon 5's ex-commercial telepaths sauntered away. Sheridan shook his head, amazed. To think he could have run into old friends on the mortal side of the world... he wondered how many times it happened while he was living without him even knowing it. 

A speaker murmured a list of flight numbers over their heads. Sinclair grunted, noticeably more troubled. He tucked Lyta's papers in his pocket. "Enough loitering. That's our flight."


	4. Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do you want to get down to business? Sheridan does, too. Unfortunately in the mortal realm sometimes you have to wait.

There were many things Sheridan missed about being in the living world. Every morning with his coffee he'd sit and reminisce about Delenn, and Babylon 5, and stuff like chemistry and matter and physics and logic. One thing he didn't miss was lines. Didn't miss plane flights either, for that matter. His government ships all had quantum drives and jump point generators. Commercial ships, though, were stuck with cramped seats, small spaces, and decades-old technology.

Sheridan shifted in his coach plane seat and silently regretted the freelancers he didn't upgrade to first class while he was captain of the Agamemnon. Sinclair sat beside him, belted in and deep in thought. He flipped through the papers Lyta gave him at the terminal. Sheridan leaned over his shoulder, but he kept the folder bowed to hide the words. All he saw was the title sheet reading “Sheridan/Sikes. Project JS Intro.”

Sheridan leaned in to whisper. “JS. That's me, right?” 

Sinclair sounded annoyed. “What?”

“John Sheridan. JS.” 

“Your name is Thomas.”

“Oh, come on!” Sheridan huffed. “I know it's about me. It has the word “intro” in it.”

“It could be me, too.” He glanced up. “Jeffrey Sikes. Still holds.”

“You've all been holding my hand since I started this thing. There is no doubt JS Intro is Lorien naming this after me. It's my training wheels mission.”

“You're being a little sensitive, don't you think.”

“Sensitive or perceptive?” 

“John – ”

“Thomas,” Sheridan snorted. 

Sinclair folded his report shut. “You don't have training wheels. This isn't an act. This isn't a setup. This is a real mission and I'm gonna need you to focus.”

“Let me see the report, then.” Sheridan said. “You've been hiding it from me since you got it.”

“I have not.”

“Yes you have.” Sheridan reached for the folder but Sinclair snatched it away. “What are you, three?”

“We'll get a briefing when we get there. For now just be patient.”

“You don't want me to see it because you don't think I can handle it. This is a tutorial mission – all the way down to Thomas Sheridan and Jeffrey Sikes. You don't even trust me with fake names.”

“It's a big transition. We were making it easier on you.”

“See? See!” Sheridan caught the people across the aisle staring at them and lowered his voice back to a whisper. “You're making it easy on me because you don't think I can handle it.”

“John – Tom.” Sinclair shifted to face him. “You've been an Earth Force captain, a diplomatic liason, a rebellion leader, an interstellar president, an anla'shok, an entil'zha, and husband to the equivalent of Minbari Joan of Arc. You are perfectly suited to a consulting mission like this one, but that doesn't mean you get to fly by the seat of your pants. On my first body job, I was sent to a Minbari colony to counsel their disheartened religious leader. Do you know how hard it was to talk about myself in the third person all the time? Or keep up with the myth Valen accumulated since I died? It was a pain in the ass. We took out some of the trivial bits – sure. You can still call me Jeff and answer to Sheridan. It'll keep your mind on preventing interstellar war.”

“This could result in interstellar war?”

“No. Perhaps? Maybe – but it won't. Because the two of us are in charge.” He tapped the folder. “JS. John Sheridan and Jeffrey Sinclair. You and me. And the “intro” is to remind you to meditate on the fact that this is your first goddamn outing and you need to follow my lead instead of second-guessing my motivation.”

“Jeez, alright.” Sheridan shook his head. “I still don't see why I can't read the notes. They aren't about me, are they?”

“No, they're about me.” Sinclair handed him a page. “The Tha'domo monks are a religious warrior class. They train in the pike like the Anla'shok and have been known to maim people in defense of their beliefs. The Honored Ground monastery is on the edge of known space – but a place I am familiar from my time as Entil'Zha. This is where a battle was fought centuries ago when I was alive. A ship crashed here, and now the Tha'domo call it holy. I recall the impetus of this belief as a tragic moment in my history. I can't imagine why they're so dug in here, or why they won't let the Earth Force fleet traverse the space.”

“Were aliens forbidden in your holy sector?”

“In my time it was Shadow controlled space,” Sinclair said. “We were driven out of it.”

“Maybe they're taking it back in your honor – Honored Ground. I mean it makes sense.”

“Maybe.” The furrow folded back into Sinclair's brow. “If they were Warrior Caste. Religious isn't known to take revenge... unless the Tha'domo have broken their vows.”

A stewardess interrupted their deliberation with a smile. “Beverage cart?” 

She was a Centauri woman with a tiny hat atop her shaved head. The look was ridiculous. Sheridan would have to tell Londo about that when he got back. “No, thank you.”

“Will you be purchasing dinner, then?” The woman asked. “The flight will take us three hours. We'll be arriving at noon local time.”

“No thank you, we'll suffer,” Sinclair said. He pressed his lips until she was out of earshot and shook his head with a sigh. “Lyta left us eighty credits, we may need those for something else.”

“Plus I'd hate for my first meal alive to be plane food.” Sheridan slouched and examined the paper. Notes on history and schematics. Whichever telepath was the researcher was exhaustively thorough. Sinclair handed him a blueprint of the EAS Madisonville – an omega-class ship like the Agamemnon with bulky mid-century design and sufficient military armaments. He hoped the Tha'domo weren't aggressive to the point of firing cannons, but it was good to know nonetheless. Her commanding officer was a young woman by the name of Thompson Gens. This was her first command post, and from the photo enclosed in her resume she looked every inch of it. 

“That's who we're targeting.” Sinclair tapped her face with his pen. “Captain Gens is destined for general-hood if all this goes right. This is her proving ground. She's got to make a good impression on Earth Dome if her destiny's to come true.”

“Destiny? I thought we were here about exploration.”

“We are. It's the same. Every mission we go on is about righting the timeline. The universe is omniscient, and flexible to a point but it's gotten impatient with the ripples caused by the Shadows and the Vorlons. When it's impatient it makes changes. It does great feats and miracles. My trip in Babylon 4 was one of those occasions. We were in the right place at the right time and the dominoes fell, resulting in a human man changing into a Minbari leader with a gift of prophecy based solely on the history I read before I left. A lot of prophecies are like that – people shifting about in time. Sometimes it's flukey, but sometimes the universe is course correcting, like it's doing with you and me.”

“Was there an agent helping us back then?” Sheridan asked. “It wasn't Zathras was it?”

Sinclair chuckled. “No it wasn't Zathras. Not the way you're thinking, anyway. He was informed by the Great Machine which was put in place by the old ones, who were on speaking terms with the universe, so in that way you're correct.” 

“What about me?” Sheridan asked. “I was thrown into the future. Was I one of the things the universe had to fix?”

“You know your own answer to that. Lorien brought you back to life,” Sinclair said. “If you hadn't gone to Z'ha'dum you'd be around to fight the war, and we needed you to fight the war. “

“So I WAS supposed to listen to Delenn,” Sheridan muttered. “If I hadn't gone to Z'ha'dum I'd be alive right now and it would have worked out as it was supposed to have...”

“Ah, but the Shadows and Vorlons only left because Lorien was there to tell them off. And you didn't meet Lorien until you jumped on Z'ha'dum. Maybe the fact you DIDN'T listen to Delenn was the plan.”

“I'm confused.”

“Everyone's confused. That's why we have a report.” Sinclair took Sheridan's couple papers and folded them back into the pile. “Be grateful I've done this before.” 

Beverage service ended with a chime over the loudspeaker. A voice in several languages echoed through the space. It was weird listening to Narn and Centauri and struggling to understand all that was said. Beyond the Rim, Londo and G'Kar spoke in their native tongues constantly without any problem but in the mortal realm Sheridan was limited to words and languages he knew. Thankfully he had Minbari in the bag. They'd be arriving in two earth hours. This was confirmed by the English translator, followed finally in Interlac. Language and travel... two things infinitely better beyond the Rim. 

Sheridan shifted in his seat again. “Did she say it was going to take three hours?”

“Something like that.” 

“Why didn't Lorien warp us straight there?”

“Because we needed to connect with the Madisonville.” 

“Why not beam us to our connection then?” 

“Because they'll wonder how we got there.”

“Aren't they going to wonder how we got to the spaceport?”

“Check your business cards,” Sinclair said. “Interstellar Consultants has an office in the spaceport.”

“We still teleported into their bathroom.” Sheridan slouched in the stiff seat. “Is it always like this?”

“Not always. Sometimes.” Sinclair returned to the papers in his folder. “We probably shouldn't be talking so openly about how it all works. Someone could be listening.”

Sheridan crossed his arms and pouted. He was still being babied. The colorful ribbons of hyperspace danced beyond his heavily-tinted window. Sheridan leaned his head against it, impatient and sour. He missed the ease to which he'd grown accustomed, and the spaces and places that had grown so familiar. He missed the grasp he'd gained on his own reality. Even though he was back in the mortal realm there were more rules and more changes and things he didn't understand. More than anything, he missed Delenn – closer now than ever, yet still so far away. 

Nothing felt fair. It WASN'T fair. He was hungry and his seat was hard and his back ached. He felt his heart beating with a gentle pain that drained the energy from every muscle in his body. An incredible tiredness dragged at the back of his brain until he slipped quietly into a cramped, uncomfortable sleep.


	5. Madisonville

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sheridan and Sinclair rendez vous with the EAS Madisonville and get a bit more information about the situation they're dealing with.

By the time Sheridan and Sinclair disembarked their commercial spaceship, Sheridan was ready to kill and eat the next person he saw. 

“Our liaison should be waiting on platform 10.” Sinclair clomped ahead of him down the gangway. Sheridan kept close, grumbling as humans and aliens elbowed past. His stomach rumbled, and the glass of water he had on the ship was sloshing uncomfortably through his insides. The mortal world was awful.

“Interstellar Consultants?” A young man's voice called over the milling heads. “Interstellar Consultants?”

Sinclair thumped Sheridan in the chest. “Bingo.”

Their contact was a mousy young man with blonde hair and blue eyes. He held a sign for the EAS Madisonville printed on a plain sheet of paper. He extended his hand to Sinclair. “Mr. Sikes?”

“Yes. My associate Mr. Sheridan.”

John shook the boy's hand with an irritated pout. “Charmed.”

“Cadet Monroe,” they young man declared. “Assistant to Lieutenant Commander Renalds. He'll be your supervisor.”

Sinclair frowned. “I thought we were reporting to Captain Gens.”

“The commander is very busy,” Monroe said. “The Lieutenant is her second. He'll take care of things, don't you worry. Now if you please, follow me.”

Sheridan and Sinclair shared a knowing look and followed the cadet through the crowd to the Madisonville's designated platform. Sheridan tried to stay focused but the aching thud in his chest was twisting his hunger into nausea. Every food vendor and convenience store emitted smells either a little too sweet or a little too sour. Was it simply airport food, or was Sheridan smelling imperfection. A hot dog beyond the Rim was the best hot dog it knew how to be, after all.

A shuttle waited at platform 10. Monroe flashed his id and escorted them on. The three strapped in and departed without ceremony, giving Sheridan a good view of the tiny intermediary spaceport through one of the overhead monitors. Sheridan's physical discomfort aggravated the doubt and displeasure in his heart. What he wouldn't give for good food and actual restorative sleep. The gnawing ache in his head whittled away at flesh and bone as he counted each heartbeat. Although the flight from station to ship was short, every moment was spent fighting the urge to fall back to sleep. Sinclair and Monroe talked. Sheridan tried his best to listen, but the names and ranks they traded sounded like nonsense. 

Sinclair wasn't suffering like this, was pain part of the “first timer” transition? Why did everything in the afterlife feel like a test? He was probably dealing with something super preventable Sinclair was withholding information about “for his own good.” Or maybe he was just crabby. Whatever. A sandwich would probably solve most of his problems.

The EAS Madisonville appeared on the overhead monitor and a new kind of pain tightened Sheridan's chest. He'd seen a photo of it in their papers, but seeing the Omega-class warship amid that field of stars was like a step back in time. Light from the station glinted at the edge of the massive ship. It's rotating gravity conduit flashed as it passed by the floods. He might as well be on a shuttle to the Agamemnon. He had so much to look forward to. Career. Family. Hell, the excitement of leading your first crew against the enemy. He was so alive back then. 

Climbing aboard was surreal. The Madisonville was a younger ship than the Agamemnon, but the trappings were very similar. Everything from the boxiness of the metal bulkheads to the sound of boot steps to the smell in the elevators. Sheridan could see himself in every cadet walking the halls, envying their opportunity and enthusiasm. There was no telling where their lives would lead, but he hoped it wasn't war. Captain Gens wouldn't let that happen – if she was anything like he was back then, she was already in love with this ship and it's crew. He knew the minute he stepped aboard the Agamemnon, he'd throw himself on a blade for it. On instinct, Sheridan found himself standing at attention. He breathed the recycled air and let its chill ease the nausea still grumbling in his stomach. 

Cadet Monroe was chipper and fake as a pre-recorded message. He'd been chatting the entire trip, and was still talking as the elevator began it's trip up. “ – we are very proud, as you can see. she was re-commissioned in 2279 after the retirement of Commander Presley, with a full retrofit to match modern propulsion and safety requirements. Captain Gens has been at the head for six months and we are all very excited to have her in command.”

Sinclair's voice was flat. “I can tell.”

“Tell us about the captain,” Sheridan ventured. “This is her first post, right?”

“Oh yes, and she's very capable,” Monroe said in the same matre d' kind of tone. “Lieutenant Commander Renalds will meet us on the bridge. A moment more of your patience, please.”

The elevator dinged and the three of them stepped into the command center, smacking Sheridan with another blast of nostalgia. The familiar tiered platform and console arrangement was so reminiscent of CnC back on Babylon 5, he swore he could see Ivanova standing at fore. A gray-haired man walked the upper platform toward them with an arm outstretched. “Ah! Interstellar Consultants!”

Sinclair shook his hand. “Lieutenant Commander Renalds.” 

“Yes indeed. I'm thrilled to make your acquaintance.” He nodded. “Thank you Monroe, you are dismissed, Mr. Sikes, Mr. Sheridan, and I have important matters to discuss.”

“Aye, sir!” Monroe saluted and scurried out of CNC.

“If you gentlemen would come with me, we'll continue somewhere more private.”

The lieutenant commander led them to what Sheridan recognized as the CO's office. The doors opened to a desk and sitting area, but the commanding officer was not there. 

“In truth, I'm relieved Earth Force agreed to send you.” Renalds took a seat at the opposite side of the desk. “There was some question about our success without a licensed sensitivity coach. Let me pull up the schematics – ”

“Excuse me,” Sheridan interrupted. Sinclair shot him a disapproving glare, and he continued with diminished confidence. “Should we be starting without the Captain?” 

The lieutenant pursed his lips as if responding to a child. “We needn't bother the captain with details like this. She's a very busy young woman. I've been serving on this vessel for almost ten years, I'm sure I am sufficient to lay out the plans.”

“No doubt that you are,” Sinclair said. “Although it would be beneficial for all of us if we stood on the same page. My associate and I have had a long journey. Perhaps we can arrange a time the captain will become available for a consultation. It will give us a little time to get settled before the real work begins.”

The lieutenant's face fell in a pout before snapping back into place. “Of course. Capital idea, Mr. Sikes. You'll have the VIP quarters on the executive floor. Would you like me to arrange an escort?”

“We can find our way,” Sinclair replied. “Thank you, Lieutenant Commander.”

Keycards and introductory information crossed the table in another file folder. Sinclair added it to his mission notes and led Sheridan off the bridge. He marched past the elevator and entered the fire-emergency stairwell. The heavy door closed, sealing hallway noise outside. 

Sinclair quirked and impatient eyebrow. “You're feeling forward, aren't you?”

Sheridan gawked. “I thought we were doing this together.”

“The papers say you're my apprentice. You're supposed to be in character.”

Sheridan crossed his arms. “I just asked a question.”

“Follow my lead,” Sinclair stated. “I was going to suggest waiting. You undermined my authority and with a career guy like Renalds, authority is everything.”

“Yeah, well, I have some reservations about that, too.”

“We'll talk about it later. Right now I need a nap.” Sinclair marched ahead of him down the stairs. “I swear the more time you spend with the living the more you envy the dead.”

“You held yourself together very well, by the way,” Sheridan said. “If you feel like I do, I know it was hard.”

“Everything's hard.” He swiped their door card on the executive floor. “Let that be lesson number one to you, Thomas. We're with the living, now. Nothing here is what it seems.”

The two of them exited to the hall. A janitor smiled and saluted. Sinclair gave him a business card and and kept smiling until they were safe behind closed doors.


	6. The Captain

Sheridan's VIP room on the Madisonville was weirdly familiar to the captains quarters on the Agamemnon, similar enough to confuse him for a moment as he dragged from a deep sleep. He'd been asleep three hours. At some point apparently he'd consumed a whole tin of canned meat – zero memory of that. Hoped there wasn't a wax seal because it looked like he ate that, too.

Waking up beyond the Rim was refreshing and restorative. Waking up among the living felt like clawing your way out of quicksand. He really hadn't realized how awful everything was. His doorbell chimed and he grunted a reply. “Open.”

“Morning sunshine,” Sinclair said. “Ready to punch fate in the jaw?”

“I'd sure like to punch something, anyway.” Sheridan yawned. “You're chipper.”

“I'm a machine.” Sinclair slipped in and waited for the door behind him to securely close. “Let's talk strategy.”

Sheridan sighed and leaned against the wall. “What's your plan?”

“I'm more interested in what you've considered.”

“Why? Is this a teachable moment?” He smirked. “I think before anything we need to talk to Captain Gens. She's new to her post and too young to have participated in the war. This could be her first encounter with Minbari culture. The Tha'domo are going to be a hell of a crash course.”

“Agreed.”

“So what do we do?”

“Demand to be brought along,” Sinclair answered. “They hired us as consultants, we will emphasize the moment-by-moment nature of Minbari negotiations and place ourselves at the captain's side – flanking her if possible.”

“To give her advice.”

“This is intended to be her victory. She will fire the arrow. We shall be the tension in her bow.” Sinclair beckoned him into the hall. “Let's go make some demands.”

They returned to the bridge to find Lt. Comdr Renalds back at the captain's post. Sheridan's crankiness ebbed at the sight. The LT's arrogant swagger reminded him of a highschool guidance counselor he once had, a man whose name escaped him but who at one point called him “scrappy.”

“Welcome back, gentlemen. I trust you rested well.” 

“Well enough,” Sinclair replied. “How long until we reach the Honored Ground?”

“Don't worry, Mr. Sikes, we are perfectly on schedule.”

“Where is the captain?”

That greasy smile was back again. Sheridan's throat knotted.

“Miss Gens is a very busy person. I'm sure she's on her rounds.”

Sinclair's brow twitched. “I assumed when we took time to rest that you would arrange for her to meet us. I'm not comfortable moving forward on this project without consulting with her directly.”

“Ah well, that may be a problem,” Renalds said. “You see, she's somewhat scatterbrained as well – young thing, head in the stars – I would be the one cataloging the information regardless. I will put out a page for her. We can get started and fill her in when she arrives.”

“Fine.” Sinclair grunted but slipped Sheridan a sidelong look. They were in agreement. Something was up and Sinclair didn't trust Renald's page. When they stepped back into the office area, Sheridan slipped back into the corridors. 

Doing her rounds. What a crock. Sheridan couldn't enter the command quarters without clearance, but he knew where engineering was. Walking with confidence avoided suspicion as he took a series of lateral lifts to the observation deck. There, observing the zero-gravity maintenance of the beige-bryant engine system, was the missing Captain Thompson Gens. 

She was short – barely over 5 foot – with glasses and dark hair drawn back in a clasp. Her Earth Force uniform was pressed and clean and she stood with pride. Sheridan cleared his throat. “Captain Gens?”

Her posture shifted, shrinking a bit as she turned from the window. “Can I help you?” 

“I'm from Interstellar Consultants. My colleague and I came aboard at the last space port. Earth Force sent us.”

“Yes, I saw the reports.” She straightened to appear taller. “We have a meeting at eight.”

“We have a meeting at now,” Sheridan failed to curb his sarcasm. “And a meeting about three hours ago. Lieutenant Commander Renalds represented you.”

Her jaw twitched. “I assume he greeted you well.”

“He does his best to be efficient.” He hated the stiffness of the conversation and unclasped his hands. “May I be frank, ma'am?”

“Go on.”

“I know what it's like to captain a ship of this size – ” he caught himself in too much truth and cleared his throat. “I've had family in similar positions so I know how busy you are, but my colleague and I suspect that the Lieutenant is... unqualified to manage this assignment. Our dispatcher told us to report to you, and we would very much like to keep to that assignment.”

Gens sobered, although a glimmer of appreciation shone behind her thick lenses. “Excuse my tone, but you're a stranger on my ship. Did you interrupt my rounds to doubt the quality of my command staff?”

“I'm sure Renalds is an excellent second, but he's still not the first.”

Gens snorted.

“If you have time, Captain, would you mind joining us upstairs? Renalds said he would call you but if I haven't missed my guess, he never did.”

“I'm sure he was going to get to it.” She returned to the pane of glass between them and the massive cylindrical engine clusters. Sheridans heart stirred. In his day, he had to observe his engine room through closed-circuit monitors. To be able to stare into the actual room was not mechanically required, but the sight of the zero-gravity technicians floating beside the massive power transfers was awe-inspiring to say the least. The whole assembly slowly spun, tugging men like tiny kites. So much power wrapped in peaceful clusters, like a sleeping giant. Gens let out a sigh. “Blows your mind a bit that we're the ones spinning while they stay in place.”

“I was just thinking the opposite, actually.”

“You're not used to being on spaceships, if we weren't spinning we wouldn't be standing here.”

“If you ask me, it's a matter of perspective.” Sheridan joined her at the window. “Out there, there's no up or down, so spinning or not really doesn't matter. In here, we experience stillness so we can look out that window and say they're the ones who are moving, just like the technicians can look in here and see us going around.”

“Perspective doesn't change facts.”

“Yeah, but planets spin,” he said. “Solar systems spin. Galaxies spin. Hell, the whole universe spins but when we're in it, we don't notice. From our perspective, we're rooted in place. Unless of course you're feeling dizzy.”

She smirked. “Who did you say you were, again?”

“Thomas Sheridan.”

“Guess we're two Toms – Thompson Gens.” She gripped his hand with a single, decisive shake. “I can see why you were picked for this job, you already talk like a Minbari.”

He snorted. “Let's pretend that's the reason.”

“I was unsure about bringing a consultant on this late in the game. EarthDome has had this plan set for months, I was wondering if maybe they were having second thoughts – ” She cleared her throat and met Sheridan's eye with a cynical lilt. “How about you join me in my office. I hear there's a meeting in there right now.” 

“Capital idea.”

She nodded to the engineering workers with a simple 'carry on' and led Sheridan back to the lift. The door slid closed and she cleared her throat again. “How long have you been a consultant?”

“Not long. I'm the junior on this assignment. My supervisor is upstairs.”

“I'm pretty fresh myself.” She shifted. Standing side by side in the tiny room really emphasized their height difference. The top of her head hid her facial expression, but the pause between statements was steeped in uncertainty. “Your point about the universe spinning, it's a good metaphor but I should clarify that as captain I can't afford to compartmentalize my attention like that. I have to focus on what part of the ship is spinning, because this entire ship is my responsibility. Sitting still isn't acceptable, it just means I'm being swept along.”

“You're starting to sound like a Minbari, yourself.” Sheridan bowed his head. “Perhaps you have a point about the ship, but one mind can only keep stock of so much. At some point you have to accept that you're standing still in order to make sense of the chaos swirling around you.”

"I'm sure you think that sounds wise but it's nonsense when you're not in it."

The lift arrived at the bridge. Renald's raised voice was audible even before the doors were open. The officers at the different consoles glanced nervously over their shoulders. Seeing the Captain Gens didn't add any extra confidence.

“You haven't the slightest inclination as to what these people are about!” Sinclair stated. 

“You are a consultant – we are Earth Force!”

“Consultants come with knowledge. Look past the end of your nose.”

“Ahem.” Gens entered, hands folded behind her back as they had been before. 

Renalds straightened from where he hovered over her desk with the shadow of a sneer still present on his face. “Captian. So good of you to join us.” 

“Good of you to wait for me to start.” She regarded Sinclair. “Mr. Sikes, I assume.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Sinclair steepled his hands and nodded, looking just a little too Minbari for his own good. “I see you've met my associate.”

“He informed me of the meeting.”

“How very industrious of him,” Renalds grunted. “Mr. Sikes was reviewing my write-up of our approach to the Honored Ground.” 

A vein pulsed in Sinclair's temple. “Captain Gens. This plan you've laid out is not feasible. I beg you reject it and allow us to assist in the drafting of a new one – ” 

“This plan was approved by EarthDome,” Renalds said. “You gave it a pass, yourself, am I correct, ma'am?” 

Gens bristled. “I did, yes. But EarthDome approved these consultants, too.”

“I'm sure it's just a precaution.” 

“We were sent to make this run smoothly,” Sinclair interrupted. “We're on the same side, Captain Gens, Unless you plan to start another interstellar incident.”

Her brow lowered. “How do you mean?”

Renalds beat Sinclair to the answer. “Admittedly, Earth Force has not has the best experience with the Minbari. The war was decades ago, but their culture has a long memory and can hold a deliberate grudge. This is why we have done our best to learn from past mistakes. Last time we mistook the open gun ports as an aggressive stance and now we know better. Earth Force has a very detail-oriented research department, and it's researchers have dissected every wartime and peacetime military encounter. The resulting data I – I mean we – have taken into strict account on the drawing of these plans.”

“Mimicking Minbari behavior is not how you communicate,” Sinclair snapped. “The tha'domo are warriors, but they're not Warrior, they're religious caste. Just because they fight does not mean they hold to the same philosophies or will respond to the same gestures. They will see this as disrespectful.”

The captain glanced between them. “In what ways?”

“Please, captain, don't muddy your strategy with these overreactions." 

“They're hired consultants, why won't you let him speak?”

“Because they are not military strategists!” Renalds insisted. “Would you trust a civilian who has never been into battle to plan a frontal assault?”

She shifted. “That's not the same – “ 

“But would you?”

“No.” Gens's voice dropped, as if agreeing with him put a kink in her armor. 

Renalds waved the tablet readout he held in air like courtroom evidence. “We have studied their battle tactics AND religious beliefs. I remind you that this was approved. The consultants were only here to double-check our language, not rewrite the whole thing. You should take charge of this.”

She flushed. “I am taking charge.”

“You are letting them manipulate this mission!”

A bleep sounded over the intercom, followed by Monroe's chipper voice. “Excuse me, Captain? Lieutenant Commander?” 

Renalds answered. “Yes?”

“Letting you all know that we've entered sector 848 and are due to arrive at the Honor Ground Monastery in eighteen hours.”

Sheridan suppressed a grunt. Less than a day to get this sorted. Without looking at the plans, himself, Sheridan had no idea the feasibility, but the look on Sinclair's face was little reassurance. Sinclair was supposed to take the lead, but the sooner this was fixed, the sooner the bunch would stop sniping each other. The Minbari were intellectually perceptive. This high-school caliber infighting was going to fail the mission before it starts. He tapped Gen's shoulder. “Ask the LT to explain the plan again.”

She went rigid again and hissed at him. “What?”

“It will give my colleage a chance to explain the details.”

“What is he saying to you?” Renalds demanded. 

“He informed me that the review took place without him present,” Gens said. “We should go over it again.”

"We don't NEED to go over it again!"

"Stop telling us what we do or do not need," Sinclair said. "Arriving with guns drawn is idiotic and disrespectful. It will remind them of what started the war, it will mock their customs, and worst of all that, THEY KNOW YOU ARE NOT MINBARI. They will interpret the move in Earther terms and arm themselves to attack. These negotiations will open with a volley of gunfire. Is that what you want?" He turned specifically to Gens. "Is that what YOU want?"

"No, it's not!" She snapped back. "I won't be yelled at in my own office! This meeting is adjourned. Take two hours to clear your heads and everyone meet back here. I need time to think."

Renalds gestured broadly. "This is wholly unnecessary." 

"I don't care," she said. "Everybody just get out."

Sinclair gathered his files, but waited for Renalds to exit first before storming out the door. Sheridan lingered a moment. Gens spoke in his pause.

"Thomas."

"Yes?"

"I apologize for correcting you before." Gens thumbed the pages of Renalds handwriting covering her desk. "Strictly between the two of us, I think I'm getting dizzy."

"Then find the ground," Sheridan said. "And once you do, stand firm."


	7. Plant Your Feet and Hold On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Open the gun ports. Close the gun ports. Open the gun ports. Close the gun ports.

A couple hours' recess did not make a difference. Sinclair and Renalds fought like cats for hours about the gun display. First Renalds had the upper hand and the gun ports were opened, then Sinclair's reason was accepted and the gun ports were closed, then Renalds' seniority was respected and they opened, then Sinclair's cultural awareness saw them closed again. All the while Captain Gens was in the middle like a braided rope in a tug-of-war match. Sheridan watched the battle with mounting disbelief. He hadn't seen this level of ego war since Londo vs G'Kar back on Babylon 5.

''Honored Ground Station in visible range in T-30 seconds." Cadet Monroe reported. 

"Good, leave the gun ports open as we approach," Renalds said.

"For the last time, doing that is going to put them on alert," Sinclair said. "Close the ports."

"Earth Dome approved leaving them open."

"Earth Dome approved cultural reevaluation."

Monroe hovered his finger over one of the console buttons. "Captain?"

Gens stood on a platform above the recessed CNC array, power in her position but not in her posture. Sheridan knew that look. Being on your first command is tough enough without your second in command actively sabotaging you. There were a couple less than proud moments in his own past where the demands of the job left him drawn out and thready. To make the same decision over and over again... he'd watched the small resolve she had chipped away one reversal at a time. He was experiencing a different reversal -- the switch from worry to relief and back was exhausting in the worst way. Now they were out of time.

Monroe cleared his throat and asked again. "Captain?"

"Captain," Sheridan prompted her. He tried to keep his voice calm despite the butterfly swarm in his stomach. 

Her eyes refocused at the sound of his voice. It was the first time she'd been addressed respectfully in hours. "Yes?"

"Your cadet," Sheridan said.

The young captain straightened from her hunched position and found Monroe on the lower floor. "Yes, Cadet?"

"We're in visual range," Monroe repeated. "The gun ports are open. Do we continue as we are?"

"Of course we do!" Renalds said. 

"Captain Gens, this is not a game any more." Sinclair approached her position. "If they perceive a threat, they WILL fire."

"He's taking advantage of your naivete," Renalds said. "Command agrees that I'm right."

"This is not about disobeying command," Sinclair said. "They haven't hailed us, it's not too late. Close the ports. Avoid a possibly catastrophic diplomatic incident."

"That's exactly what we ARE doing!" Renalds shouted. "It's approved."

"It's wrong-headed!"

Lorien told them when they left that this was going to be easy. Something simple to cut Sheridan's teeth on. He also said death was permanent, which felt extremely true surrounded by the red glow of active armory lights. Gen's gaze drifted to Sheridan out of the corner of her eye. At least through all this, she still trusted him. Their report said she was meant to make the decisive action that leads them to success. That alone made him confident she would make the right decision. He gave her a pointed nod. 

"Honored Ground Station in visual range." Monroe said. The station appeared on the forward screen. It was an ancient Minbari structure, hundreds if not thousands of years old. The body of the station was oblong with blue and violet solar damage like oxidation on a silver tear. A ring of more modern structures hovered around the center pod, laced together with shuttle tubes and external track. Panels Four massive weapons arrays covered the station's flanks. The hatches were open, revealing plasma cannons inside. Monroe spun in his chair. "Captain, their defensive grid is active."

"That's okay," Sinclair said. "It's not aggressive yet. They are protecting sacred territory --"

"They're following their cultural protocol," Renalds agreed in a haughty self-affirming tone that eclipsed Sinclair's caution. "It's as our report said. Leave the gun ports open."

"No." Sinclair insisted.

 

"Defense grid primed, Captain!" Monroe said, more urgently. "I don't think this is symbolic."

Renalds rounded on Sinclair. "You agreed it was not aggressive."

A vein pulsed in Sinclair's temple. "You. Are not. MINBARI!"

The energy refocused back on their verbal duel. Both of them were right, but only one action was correct. Sheridan's palms began to itch, an image of Delenn rising in the back of his mind. They occupied the same space now -- the same time. They were breathing the same proverbial air. If he died here, Sheridan would pass into a new life without memory of what he'd lost. Delenn would join his friends beyond the rim and find an empty house full of memories of her with no soul to inhabit it. 

Sheridan refused to leave his afterlife without seeing his wife again.

"Gens." Sheridan climbed onto the platform beside Gens and pressed his face to her ear. "You are captain of this ship. Ignore the negativity in this room. When you're in charge of a bridge, your word is law. It's time to pick your ground."

Gens stared into his eyes, her mind flashing with uncertainty. Something steeled inside her. She swallowed hard. "Close the gun ports."

Monroe flashed a glance to Renalds. "Repeat, Captain?"

She squared her stance and straightened. "Close the gun ports, Cadet!"

"Monroe!" Renalds grunted.

"Minbari guns charged, ma'am!" Another cadet stood up from her console, eyes wide. "Targeting systems locked on!"

Sheridan's stomach dropped. This wasn't a show of arms for the monks. He recognized the cannon banks mounted on the oblong structure. It was enough firepower to disable the Madisonville in a single volley. He stepped in front of Gens and leaned over the rail. "Cadet! She said close the gun ports. Close those gun ports, NOW!"

"Yes sir!" Monroe saluted on reflex and punched in the command. The red glow on the console switched back to 'standby' but it was already too late.

"Incoming fire!" The other cadet shouted. 

Gens blanched. "Shields up!"

The silver-blue plasma shot through space like a comet. The first impact shook the bridge so hard Sheridan's boots left the floor. 

"Forward shield damaged!" The second cadet called. "Losing power. Collapse imminent."

Sinclair grabbed Sheridan's arm. "What was that?"

"New," Sheridan replied. "Recent tech. Newer than this ship."

"Hull rupture on deck nine!" Monroe shouted. "They're targeting the engines!"

The second bolt sliced through the forward shield. Red and yellow alarm lights flashed. Klaxons sounded. Environment light traded for emergency as the CNC consoles went dark.

"We've lost propulsion." Monroe reported. "First and second battery cells -- Captain, we're dead in the water."

"Wait." Gens snapped her fingers at the screen. "They're hailing us."

Renald's face was gaunt in the jaundiced light. "Patch it through."

In a flash, the station was replaced with a Minbari monk. Despite her obvious religious dress, her head bone was outgrown and angular in a mock of Warrior fashion. The robe was vaguely anla-shok and held together with thick metal clasps in a fashion Sheridan recalled from David's history books. A line of similar monks stood behind her, heads covered in long hoods. The woman in front spoke Andrenato with a clipped, angry affect that matched her look and made it hard for even Sheridan's practiced ear to understand. _"Earther ship. You approach with malice yet seal your weapons when we fire. Do you come in ritual suicide?"_

"What did she say?" Renalds demanded. 

Sinclair rolled his eyes. "She is confused about our intentions and asked if we wanted to die." 

"What! Are they daft?" He scoffed. "Tell her we are the EAS Madisonville and we come in peace."

"Peace does not come with swords drawn." The Minbari said.

Sinclair smirked. "She understands English, she just doesn't understand your actions.

Gens cleared her throat. "Please accept our apologies, your honors. We approached you in ignorance. We thought open weapons unarmed was a show of peace. Forgive us this error, and let the pound of flesh you've carved from us prove your claim to this part of space."

The Minbari frowned deeply. Another Minbari stepped into view with a paper read-out. The stranger was dressed similarly. His face was bearded and his headbone angular, yet at the same time he was somehow clean shaven and well carved. Sheridan gasped, but Sinclair jabbed him in the ribs before he could speak. 

It was Lennier, yet somehow it was not at the same time. 

"He's inhabiting another body," Sinclair whispered. "He bears the identity of a living Minbari, only we can see his real face."

The female monk spoke in jagged English. "Our sensors detect that your ship is quickly failing. We forgive your misunderstanding. Not all races are as enlightened as the Minbari."

Renalds made a clucking noise but by some miracle held his tongue.

"Send a call for aid to your commands. We will send ships to evacuate your crew," the monk said. "You will be housed in our barracks until an escort can arrive to take you back to wherever you came from."

Gens squared her jaw. "Thank you, your honor."

Sheridan hissed in a whisper. "Bow."

"What?"

He triangled his hands in demonstration. "Bow."

"Oh." She folded her hands and bent forward. "We are grateful for your honored and honorable generosity."

Renalds clucked again. The Minbari on the screen pursed her lips into a bow. "We will speak when you arrive."

The screen went dark. Lights and klaxons continued as the crew stood in silence. Sheridan exhaled slowly, his heart racing. They were in a bad state, but they at least they were alive.


	8. The Honored Ground

The crew was escorted under guard by shuttle from the failing Madisonville to the Honored Ground monastery station. Sheridan and Sinclair were transported with the rest of the CNC, kept stiff and quiet in the middle of the small transport. The craft was ancient, older than anything Sheridan had seen outside a museum. The Minbari around him were an array of ages and dressed identically as the woman they'd spoken to on the bridge. The rings of the station's defense array passed over head. Sheridan could see where the new weapons were grafted onto older structures. Dark shapes walked the tubes connecting the ring to the station body like rays of the sun. They passed into the body of the station, through a dark chute flashing with cold light and into a docking bay where they stopped and waited.

The Minbari guards did not move, their weapons in hand. Sheridan glanced to Sinclair, whose anger was finally cooling. Commander Renalds stood with them with his hands behind his back and a Minbari fighting pike in his ribs. He was stiff, but still haughty and tutting disapproval with each passing moment. Captain Gens and Cadet Monroe did not look so assured. Gens was dwarfed by the robed Minbari. Her glasses were fogged, both hiding and betraying the flush in her face. Monroe glanced left and right. Sheridan watched his eyes in the reflection of the side-mounted windows. The mousey boy was thinking hard on something, what would pull his attention so erratically left and right? 

The doors finally opened, revealing a line of hooded Minbari and the woman who'd spoken standing in front flanked by more soldiers. Her head snapped up. She spoke Andrenato in the same impatient, heavily accented tone as before. _"Which of you was the interpreter?"_

 _"I,"_ Sinclair replied in a smoother but equally ancient Andrenato dialect. _"I interpret but I am not in command."_

 _"We do not care who commands."_ The woman said. Then in English she announced. "I am Clerenn of the Honored Ground. You are treading sacred soil, borne with bodies of thousands. You are unfit to breathe this air, nah, to even pass between the particles permeating this monastery. You are not here as our guests. You are tolerated. Nothing more."

"Good woman," Renalds ventured. "We've come to you in peace to negotiate the use of this space -- " 

_"SILENCE!"_ Clerenn's outburst did the job even for those who did not understand her language. She snapped her fingers and a hooded Minbari stepped forward. He revealed his face -- or faces, as it were -- both the one the living saw and the face of Lennier visible only to those already dead. Clerenn waved to him and he obeyed without a sound. The guards with the pikes urged the CNC staff forward and followed Lennier through the halls of the station. The building was cavernous with barbs of crystal built into the metal bulkheads like broken ribs. Sheridan and Sinclair were stuck in the middle of the pack, unable to approach Lennier. Sheridan leaned toward his companion and whispered out of the corner of his mouth. "What do you think?"

"I'm reeling," Sinclair whispered. "This is a relic from the first war -- when Valen led the Minbari against the Shadows. It is like visiting a memory. I couldn't forget the smell of it if I tried."

 _"Silence."_ The nearest guard snapped. 

The two men complied and marched through the structure to a military-style barracks. The beds were stacked two high and angled forty-five degrees from the floor. Sheridan had never seen a Minbari bunk bed. He already pitied whoever was stuck on top. 

_"Which of them said they were translator?"_ Lennier asked. His voice was the same as his face -- somehow both his and the person he inhabited. 

One of the guards grabbed Sinclair's arm. Sheridan interrupted, speaking briefly, aware his Andrenato was more modern. _"Me as well. I speak."_

Lennier nodded. _"Bring them both."_

Renalds gawked as they were hustled to the door. "Just a moment! This is an Earth Force mission, they are mere assistants -- "

 _"Silence."_ The guard nearby prodded him with the pike. 

Gens looked up, the fog on her glasses had cleared in the dry air and a touch of panic was visible in her eyes. "Where are you taking them?"

 _"They will not be harmed."_ Lennier said and nodded to Sinclair. 

"He says we're safe," Sinclair told the Captain. "We will speak with his people and report back with what we have learned."

"You should be accompanied by one of our staff," Renalds insisted, but earned another jab for his outburst.

"Sit tight," Sheridan said. "We'll be right back, I promise."

Sheridan and Sinclair stepped out of the barracks. The door closed behind and two of the guards stood before it. They were moved to a small conference room with a round table and one door. Once inside, Lennier gestured to the remaining monks. _"Rejoin the others in transferral efforts. The ship they traveled on holds hundreds. Store them separate from the leaders."_

 _"Sir,"_ One said, half questioning.

Lennier nodded and the monks left. 

They all waited until Lennier broke the silence with a smile. "Hello, gentlemen."

Sheridan winced. "Is it safe to talk in here?"

"Yes. This area of the station is not updated like the floors above. There is no closed-circuit camera work and I took the liberty of sabotaging the local feeds. They will find our speech and video garbled when they review it, leaving only my testimony to what transpired."

"Clever," Sinclair said. "How are things on your end?"

"We have done research into the purpose of this faction of the religious caste. As you no doubt noticed, this station is very old. It was established shortly after Valen's defeat in this sector, near the end of the first war with the Shadows."

"I have no memory of this station being here in my time," Sinclair said. "Although the architecture is sure familiar... except the guns."

"The station is well equipped with top of the line particle and light cannons, along with cutting edge shields and a whole bay of fighters."

"Fighters?" Sheridan gaped. "They didn't send those against the Madisonville."

"They are a very direct people," Lennier said. "The order was given to disable you. Your ship crumpled easier than expected. It's not a point in your favor, I'm afraid. Clerenn is proud. She thinks she's better than you."

Sheridan snorted. "We got that from her tone."

"She thinks she's better than all of you," Lennier corrected. "Your crew. Your people. Even other Minbari. The Honored Ground deems themselves sacred, and they are bound to this place. Their territory has increased steadily over thousands of years and they guard it with violence. Often gladly."

Sinclair frowned. "So what do we do?"

"I will do my best to negotiate the command staff finer quarters. Something to bring you to a more even playing field. The persona I inhabit is an elder member of the society. He has Clerenn's ear, although my tools are still bound by the rituals of deferrance and respect."

"Who are you, anyway?" Sheridan asked. "How are you able to take over a man's body like that."

"He's in here with me," Lennier answered. "His name is Avaier. I draw from his ego and memories to better conduct my act."

Sheridan couldn't hide his astonishment. "You've got another guy in your head right now? Is he like... talking? Can he hear us?"

"No," Lennier said. "To him, this is like a dream. When our mission ends, I will be removed and the memories remaining will be of him doing the things I do with only the vaguest impression of my influence."

"But what about this talk? And the sabotage?"

"A dream," Lennier answered. 

"That's awful," Sheridan said. "How is this moral? You're stealing a man's autonomy."

"It is a gray area in ethics, I know," Sinclair answered. "Lennier is pledged to do nothing Avaier would not do, both for respect for his host, and his host's sanity. Behaving too far out of line with Avaier's center will harm him mentally and make it hard for him to forget Lennier's presence."

"I allow him to conduct himself as he needs, only taking firm control in situations such as this," Lennier said. "It is a complicated arrangement you will need training to understand. Rest assured, he informs me with his spirit and feels no distress. He knows thanks to my presence that you two are honest and sincerely intended a peaceful approach, but he was inclined toward that thinking already. This is why he was chosen to house me." 

A beep sounded from within Lennier's robes. He checked a small readout. 

"We are out of time. Tell your people to cooperate with everything that is said. These people are dangerous and see any action as justified." 

"As you say," Sinclair confirmed. 

"If you speak privately, do it in English," Lennier said. "No one but Clerenn and her high council speak it." 

The guards reappeared and escorted them back to the barracks. Sheridan whispered when the pack paused outside the sealed door. "So that's a skin job." 

"Yes." 

"You don't... do that often do you?" 

"Fairly." 

"Have I ever...? Did anyone ever...?" He wet his lips. "Look I don't like the idea of being puppeted without my permission." 

"You haven't been." 

"How do you know?" 

"You're a bad candidate," Sinclair replied. "You're far too suspicious. And stubborn." 

"Thank God." Sheridan huffed. 

_"Silence!"_ One of the guards hissed and kicked the men back through the double doors to the secured barracks.


	9. Audience with the Stars

Sheridan and Sinclair were nearly assaulted upon their return to the barracks. Sinclair reiterated a fabrication of what was said, emphasizing the threat all present were under. “We convinced him to try and negotiate better quarters on one of the upper floors,” Sinclair said. “I think he believes our intentions.”

“How can you be sure?” Renalds pressed. “What experience do you have in negotiation?”

“I’m a consultant.”

“None of us were witnesses.”

“I witnessed,” Sheridan said. 

Renalds leveled a pointed finger at him. “You do not count.”

Gens bristled and turned sharply. “Shut up, Lieutenant.”

Renalds physically recoiled. “Sir!”

“He was right about the gun ports,” Gens said, icily. “If it were up to you we would be dead right now, so just shut up.”

Sheridan sighed. Waiting was a curse of mortality, of that he was convinced. Standing in ancient Tha’domo military bunks surrounded by worried console jockeys felt like standing too close to an open circuit. He understood it, but was separate from it as well. 

These people had no idea what awaited them at the end of this journey – no promise of success, no power over their circumstance – and Sheridan was under strict orders not to tell them, but he still knew. It made him feel almost paternal. What would they say, anyway, if he told them about the Rim. That he was crazy? What would Gens say if he told her that she was destined to make history? Would it empower her or frighten her? From what he’d observed of her behavior he was honestly unsure. But he was proud of her. Even more so after snapping Renalds into silence. 

The Lieutenant Commander turned beet red and stalked to the end of the short room. Pvt Monroe dutifully followed, glancing conspiratorially over his shoulder. 

“Will better quarters mean a meeting with Clerenn?” Gens asked Sinclair. 

“It’s a step toward that.”

“What should I say to her?” Gens said. “I mean, is it possible to still complete our mission after all of this? No ship, nothing to barter, completely at her mercy?”

“Barter would do no good here regardless,” Sinclair replied. “They guard this ground with their lives and desire nothing else.”

“We don’t want to take their territory from them, we just want to cross it –”  
“Negotiation isn’t going to do any good here,” Renalds muttered from his corner. “We are prisoners.”

Sinclair raised his voice. “It’s a grayer line than that.”

“From your perspective, perhaps.” His eyes sparked. “You know what they are really saying, and what you are really saying to them.”

Sheridan raised a hand to interject when the barracks doors slid open. A troop of Tha’Domo monks entered, fighting pikes in hand. Lennier – Avaier – was not among them. The man at the front barked something in Andrenato so degraded by time Sheridan couldn’t understand it and the whole compartment full of people were ushered out into the hall. 

“I demand you take us to your commanding officer,” Renalds told the nearest guard. “We have business to discuss. It was pre-arranged.”

_“Silence.”_

“Give it a rest, Lieutenant,” Sinclair said. “They aren’t the ones to make those decisions.”

“Hmm,” Renalds narrowed his eyes but kept his mouth shut, beckoning Monroe close again with the twitch of one finger. Sheridan trusted Sinclair with Gens and hung back in the parade to keep an eye on them. The move did not pass Renalds’ notice. He shifted Monroe to his opposite side, hiding their lips from Sheridan’s view. 

The hall took them around the oblong station in laps, marching up spirals past space-clouded windows and sealed portholes revealing bank after bank of anti-ship weaponry. A display. Sheridan noted the tracks along the supported belt and imagined the dexterity of the grid in full array. Renalds noticed it as well and ceased his muttering for a good, long look.

_”Halt.”_

The human escortees jostled to a stop, then diverted left into a wide, shallow chamber with full view of the galaxy’s edge arcing high overhead where the remains of the Madisonville floated abandoned. Sheridan’s heart winged. She was so much like the Agamemnon, it took effort to put her out of his mind. He glanced to Gens, the first time captain, and found the signs of personal failure etched on her face. 

Lights rose, revealing two dozen hooded Minbari waited in a crescent around the room. Clerenn stood at the center. The was a glaze on her headbone that sparkled as she turned her head, illuminated by the light of millions of stars. “Captain Gens.”

The captain jumped and shuffled forward, bowing the way Sheridan had shown her back on the bridge of the Madisonville. “Present. I mean… Yes. Ma’am?”

“The whole of your crew is now stored within our walls,” Clerenn announced. “Your government has been alerted to your misfortune.”

 

“And what did they say when you told them you destroyed our ship?” Renalds barked. Sheridan cringed. 

Clerenn waved a hand and the hoods of her fellows fell back. The Tha’domo around them were not armed with the typical fighting pike, each had an assault rifle with a sidearm at their belt. Among them, Lennier within his vessel. He stared at the group with as solid a glare as the rest. Sheridan had seen the look before, and hoped the hatred fueling it belonged to Avaier.

Gens blanched. “Woah! That’s not necessary!”

Clerenn hissed through her teeth. _“I will not be disrespected in my own chambers! Remove these, I regret the effort of extending my hand.”_

_“Please.”_ Sinclair raised both hands. _“The Lieutenant Commander is quite upset. He acts without reason.”_

Clerenn’s sharply ridged brow twitched. _“I need no interpreter to tell me thus.”_

_“Captain Gens is the one with authority.”_

_“Earther definition of authority is weaker than that of the Honored Ground.”_

Sheridan waited for direction from Sinclair, but Jeff would not stray his eye from Clerenn. Gens wilted in the tension, unable to understand through the language barrier that Sinclair was standing up for her. Despite his own lectures on authority, Sheridan cleared his throat. _“Perhaps a return to English would be better for negotiations?”_

Sinclair changed the target of his glare, beaming disapproval into Sheridan like a laser. The assembled monks responded to the new voice with a jostle of weaponry. 

Clerenn blinked. _“Negotiation? Is that what you think this is? And who are you to propose such an insult… that we would honor the request of an unworthy? Or that we would speak from our hearts in a foreign tongue in this holy place. I pity you.”_

Sheridan frowned. _“You brought us here to speak and began with our language, did one outburst defeat your confidence so completely?”_

_“One outburst after a gesture of war. A gesture repaid with mercy no less.”_

_”All present agree and are grateful for your mercy. If you won’t speak for the benefit of those you’ve assembled here, then I will translate, as I was hired to do.”_ Sheridan returned Sinclair’s dagger look. _“With all due respect to your holy ground.”_

_“No.”_ Clerenn said. _”I was persuaded to give you audience, I should have gone with my instincts. Take these people back to their compartment.”_

The bearded facade of Avaier contorted, falling out of alignment with what Sheridan recognized as Lennier, whose determination slowly overpowered Avaier’s hatred. _“Wait.”_

Clerenn’s troops went rigid. Starlight flashed as she turned toward him. _“Fall back in line.”_

_“Permit me, your honor.”_ Lennier bowed low both his and Avaier’s voices were even. _“They have deferred to you in all ways but custom, which they admit they are unfamiliar with. I merely ask you reconsider.”_

_“You do not ASK.”_

_“I mean no disrepsect.”_ Lennier bowed low. _”My goal is only our holiness. And our rationale. I have fear this audience will lose us both if we continue along this path.”_

_“Your honored adviser is right, your honor,”_ Sinclair spoke. _“Humans find much respect in the consultation of wise counsel. This is why my associate and I were asked along on this mission. To honor you by our presence and participation in these discussions. Please allow us to perform this duty.”_

Clerenn’s shift of weight was only visible in her sparkling headbone. _”You may translate, but select the words you choose carefully. I will know when you are lying.”_

_“We would not dream of it.”_ Sinclair exhaled. “Go on, Thomas.”

“Thank you.” Sheridan relaxed the clenched muscles in his back and chest and nodded to draw Captain Gens’ attention. “The Tha’domo monks would like to continue in Minbari, as this place is of religious significance.”

“Oh!” Gens flushed. “Yes, uh… Agreed!”

“And they doubt our respect for their culture. Clerenn said just now that she found the Lieutenant’s interjection offensive and is refusing to negotiate.”

Gens swallowed hard. “But she promised.”

“Captain,” Renalds said, dismissive. He eclipsed her in the assmebly bowing only with his head. “We were promised negotiations when we contacted these people months ago. We crossed space to reach them, now we demand they hold up their end of the bargain. Tell her that, Sikes. Be firm.”

Sinclair maintained his professional tone. ”She understands English, Lieutenant.”

“She asked for Minbari. Translate for her!”

_”Enough.”_ Clerenn snapped. _”If they will not respect us, there is no reason to speak further.”_

_“Your honor, please.”_ Sinclair said. _“You approved this course of action before our ship left Earther space.”_

_“I will tolerate this no longer.”_ She swept an arm wide. _“Remove all but the leaders and their translators. Return them to their holding cell.”_

The monks rushed forward. Gens splayed her hands. “Wait! Stop!”

“Stand down,” Sheridan coached.

The soldiers avoided Gens and Renalds like stones in a river and swept the rest of the CNC staff back out the door. Renalds spun on his heel. “Monroe!”

The Private glanced over his shoulder. Something flickered in his eyes and Renalds returned it with a nod. The doors sealed closed, leaving Sheridan, Sinclair, and the two soldiers alone with Clerenn in the massive audience chamber.

Clerenn’s normal biting tone snapped like a whip. “You think us ignorant, you filthy creatures.” 

Gens was in shock. “No, I – ”

“Spare me.” Clerenn gestured upward. “Look at the stars. The clouds of dust like shaved crystal hovering above you. I promised to have an audience and this is what I intended to show. The quadrant you wish to enter is our holy ground, and this station at its edge exists so that it will remain. It is not faith, or practice, or even doctrine that made it so. It was the very word of Valen spoken aboard a ship at the coordinates wherewhich you stand.”

Clerenn tossed her head high, her bone a crown of diamonds. “ ‘The battle fought here was bloody. The defeat almost entire. But the soldiers who lost their lives are glorified by this sacrifice. May we always remember this place as a sacred ground.’ And so we have kept it, Captain, Lieutenant, Honored advisers. This is why there is no negotiation.”

Renalds flushed. “You dragged us out here just to refuse?”

“I summoned you so you may observe.” She swept her arm overhead. “Every speck of cloud you see is part of a body. The souls of these soldiers exist in us all, but their vessels were scattered. If even one particle were disturbed by bow, or engine, or jump gate, it would dishonor us all.”

Sinclair’s eyes widened. “You are not serious.”

“It is a most serious calling, and a most serious task.” Clerenn looked to Gens. “My... adviser… requested you be stored in better quarters. I granted his request because he said you would be compliant and explain the situation to your people when they arrive. You’ve been granted quite a favor to be spoken to in this manner. I do not intend to repeat it, nor will I speak to anyone from your Alliance ever again.”

Gens gulped. “But… we...”

“You are dismissed.”

The doors opened, permitting a small collection of her armed guards, including Lennier. They took up corners around the four humans. 

_“Take them to their new lodging”_ Clerenn said. _“Avaier, you will remain.”_

_”As you wish.”_ Lennier bowed and cast Sheridan a look. It was hard to interpret through the morphing faces, but he could see a great deal of remorse. Lennier’s face was an apology. Avaier’s held only fear.


	10. Cell to Cell

Sheridan, Renalds, Gens, and Sinclair were escorted to a short hallway with two sets of automatic doors spaced evenly along each wall. The squad of armed monks dropped them at the entrance and formed a line to block passage to the rest of the station. Renalds spun, outraged. Gens stared at the floor. 

“This is unacceptable!” Renalds shouted. “It is a violation of a signed agreement between our two peoples! If you will not listen to us, I demand you file our complaint with your senior staff so that when our people arrive these negotiations can continue on OUR terms in a certified board room with lawyers present! Do you hear!?”

“Give it a rest,” Sheridan said. “They can’t understand English anyway.”

“I’ve heard just about enough out of you, JUNIOR consultant,” Renalds said. “The two of you spoke Minbari in there without even asking us what we wanted to say. Are YOU the decorated soldier or am I? I have served Earth Force for thirty years, I see no badge on your chest, so how about you start taking orders instead of giving them.” 

Sheridan’s anger bubbled. “You have no idea who you’re talking to.”

“John,” Sinclair said, then corrected himself. “Tom. Know your place.”

“My place?” Sheridan rounded, but could see Sinclair was still unsettled from their audience below the stars. Lorien said, before they left, that these missions were to correct errors made to the timeline because of the old ones’ many wars. Was this the fault of the Shadows or the Vorlons? Sheridan read similar questions in his stoic companion’s eyes and kept his rebuttals to himself.

Someone barked at the end of the hall and the armed guard parted. Lennier walked in, stripped of his weapons with his cloak over one shoulder. Sheridan noted a bit of swelling around the bone growth at his left temple. “You are to remain in these rooms until you are called for. Your people are on their way. If you need any assistance call and it will be heard.”

“I demand these guards be removed!” Renalds said. “We are diplomatic liasons and you have treated us as prisoners!”

“Requests for assistance will be heard,” Lennier repeated. “If unreasonable they will also be declined.”

“This is an insult!”

“Lieutenant.” Gens muttered, but her spirit was not in the command. The potential Sheridan saw in the military barracks was crushed after Clerenn’s defeating speech. 

Lennier glanced an intentional look to Sheridan and spoke again. “All four of you enter your rooms. The doors will lock behind you.” 

“This is unfair!” Renalds insisted. “I demand to speak to your leader!”

The armed guards shoved the two EarthForce officers in their separate chambers and sealed them inside with a punctuating ‘clang.’ Lennier nodded to Sinclair and Sheridan and gestured for them to comply. Sheridan hated the thought of another prison but did as he was asked. Lennier was the one with the power in this situation and despite the grime of residual bitterness, there was no choice but to trust him. 

The new quarters reminded Sheridan of his home back on Minbar. Despite them each being president of the ISA in turns, he and Delenn did their best to maintain the humble, modest style of living they found comfortable before such power. His room had a bed, a table, a hot plate for preparing food, even a viewscreen for communicating with the galaxy outside, although he couldn’t imagine it was functional. It looked as old as the station, and the Tha’domo didn’t strike him as very talkative. It was pretty bold of them to leave so much technology in these rooms for them considering their armed guards and hostile attitude. Did they think his group too dumb to fight back? Or was it arrogance that made them cocky?

The locked door behind him bleeped and opened, permitting Sinclair and Lennier before shutting again. Sinclair blustered into the room with fists balled. “They cannot spin my words like this. They are not following religious tradition or my decrees or intentions… This is not what I meant when I gave that speech!”

“Words are like that sometimes. Many years can warp the meaning.” Lennier winced as he shouldered off his cloak, revealing his left arm pinned tight to his side. 

Sheridan rushed forward, took Lennier by his free hand and guided him into a chair. “My god, what happened?”

“Clerenn does not approve of breaking decorum.” The Minbari winced and lowered the pinned arm to his lap. “Avaier was comfortable speaking to her in private, but was vehemently against the public display. He knew this would happen, but I forced him. I hope in some way he can forgive me.”

“What exactly did she do?” Sheridan asked. “Is it the arm?”

“No. The rib.” He settled further, relaxing painfully. “She is trained in the pike, though her techniques are ancient. Regardless, I could not fight back. It would have been worse in the end.”

“You certainly can’t fight back NOW,” Sheridan passed a light hand over Lennier’s side but realized he didn’t know Avaier well enough healthy to diagnose anything hurt. “You need to go see the healers. I know what happens if you get killed here. You won’t be able to go back.”

Lennier managed a smile. “Your concern honors me greatly, but I’m afraid Avaier is the one lost should the worst scenario play out. I am a passenger and will then become ferrier of his soul… although the death of an innocent for such a cause is more grievous than my own return to the life cycle. To have him killed while under my direct control is comparable to murder.”

“You shouldn’t have spoken up, then.” Sheridan stood again. “What are we even doing here except making everything worse. Isn’t Gens the one who’s supposed to be solving all this?”

“Do you think she’s capable of navigating this scenario?” Sinclair groused. “No, this is my fault. I need to solve it.”

“Do not confuse your mission with your morals,” Lennier cautioned. “It is odd for me to say this to Valen himself, but your intentions have no bearing here. I spoke to the monastery’s high council. I spoke to Clerenn. They agreed to show your party mercy in two instances, now. I’m afraid failure on the part of your companions has robbed me of whatever bargaining chip my vessel once possessed. I’m afraid words will no longer do.”

Sinclair closed his eyes in quick meditation and emerged more calm. “What about Neroon? He’s also on the station.”

“Yes. He is on the service decks.”

“You’ve been in communique?” 

Lennier shifted in an entirely different kind of discomfort. “He is difficult to work with.”

“Can he help us out?”

“His vessel does not speak English, nor does he have the ear of the senior monks. He is an acolyte, but he can help with reconnaissance as his job is to run errands and messages through the station. He’s been familiarizing himself with the layout should push come to shove and reports much of the station sitting empty as the Honored Ground dwindles. Here.” 

Lennier reached into his robes with his good hand and removed a pair of cards with Minbari numbers on them. “The closed circuit communications are patched into the video feeds, but all records are kept on paper as they did in the old days. The entrance of Babylon4 into the ancient Minbari timeline rocketed our technology in new and different directions, but it took a while for the practical matters to catch up. This is the digital address for a console on the lower floors. Neroon has severed it from the general matrix. You can call him on your video phones and he can relay messages to the outer galaxy.”

“You mean to Lyta and Talia,” Sinclair said.

“Yes. Calling them from your rooms is impossible without his help”

Sheridan crossed his arms. “So what do we do now? Sit here and wait here for something to happen?”

“We have to get this mission finished before the EA reinforcements arrive to take our opportunity away,” Sinclair said. “If not, we’re going to have to work a lot harder to get home.”

“Why?” Sheridan frowned. “What happens if we don’t hit our goal here?”

“Without hitting our goal we won’t be allowed home.”

“What? Lorien wouldn’t abandon us – ” 

“Lorien is our dispatcher, but the universe is sending us on these missions. If we fail it will send in someone else to pick up our slack…. But depending on the situation, that someone could be sent a hundred years from now. Our temporary bodies won’t last nearly that long. We’ll start breaking down in months rather than years and our souls recycled back into the pattern of reincarnation.”

“You mean we fail we die?” Sheridan asked. “What do you mean by our bodies breaking down?”

“Organ failure. Wasting. Consumption.” Sinclair hooked his hands on his hips. “After one mission went south, an Agent I knew was bound to a wheelchair. She completed the mission with fifteen broken bones. Lucky she made it back in time.”

“This is horrifying!” Sheridan gaped. “Why do they even send people with these kinds of odds? We’re shackled at every turn and the consequences...”

“They send us because repairing the timeline is more valuable than anything else in this plane,” Lennier answered, evenly. “And we volunteer despite the risks because we know that it is right.”

Sheridan bowed his head. “Can’t Lorien send a rescue for us if something goes wrong?”

“Circumstances permitting I am sure he will try. But do not give up so easily.” Lennier winced again and stood. “Options still exist. Even worst case scenarios can be used if we are clever. We were sent to this place with confidence and with confidence we shall continue.”

“Good attitude.” Sheridan nodded, ashamed for doubting. “Sorry.”

Lennier smiled. “It is your first day, Captain. You are permitted a little panic.”

“But let’s not overplay our hand.” Sinclair looked grave. “See if you can get Gens another audience with Clerenn. Make sure I accompany her as translator. Perhaps we can hash this out with weapons of philosophy.”

“Bring me, too,” Sheridan said. “Gens and I have a good rapport.”

Sinclair shook his head. “No, you stay here. I have enough on my plate without babysitting you, too.”

“I don’t need babysitting! I can help!”

“You dare to say such a thing after what happened in the star chamber?” Sinclair said. “By my own name, John, you’re a hazard to this mission. Every chance you get you either take charge or interrupt. I can’t afford you undermining my authority in front of these people any more than Gens can afford you shanghaiing her future by yanking her leash.”

“She trusts me, doesn’t she?”

“Yes, almost too much.” Sinclair’s eyebrows arched. “She defers to you almost as much as these monks do to Clerenn, and you can see where that has gotten them. Let her make her own choices, you can’t fulfill destiny for her.”

“That’s not fair. I’m doing the job I was sent here to do,” Sheridan retorted. “You said guide her, so I’m guiding her, at least as much as all these secrecy rules allow me to. I for damn sure don’t want to wither away to nothing. You’re locking me out of this because you don’t want to deal with me, but all you’ve done on this mission is fight with the Lieutenant and put me in time out.”

“I’m getting it done,” Sinclair said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m impatient and tired and have a lot of thinking to do. Thank you, Lennier, for your sacrifice on this trip. I know submitting yourself to punishment is never ideal.”

“I do only what I must.”

“Take care of Avaier’s wounds.”

“I will do that now.”

Sheridan grunted. “And what am I supposed to do? Sit here on my hands?”

“Do whatever you want as long as it’s here,” Sinclair said. “I’ll send you a message if we get an audience. It will NOT be an invite.”

The other men left Sheridan standing in his new quarters, righteous indignity raging like a bonfire in his aching bones. He’d been in over his head before. As commander of Babylon 5 he faced war and death and sabotage every day. As president the risk was almost worse because of red tape bureaucracy and trying to balance all the different delegations on the point of a knife. But never in his entire mortal life had he ever been too powerful for a situation. It was like bracing for a punch he couldn’t throw. The lactic acid burned.

Fine. Sinclair doesn’t want him to help out at whatever future audience he might get, what’s it matter. He still had his wits and perspective, and against all odds the Honored Ground was giving him tools. 

The video console in the wall was driven by literal push buttons. The inputs were stiff from dust and neglect. Sheridan poked them in with the full strength of his arm until a voice prompt finally sounded in even more ancient sounding Andrenato. 

_“Input Call Destination.”_

Sheridan tapped the paper card with Neroon’s address, then pocketed it away and typed a variation of his own apartment address in the field. The videocon bleeped, then snapped on on the other end. A mousy woman with brown glasses answered the phone. “Tom?”

“Captain Gens,” Sheridan said. “Forgive me for interrupting. While we were imprisoned I thought it would be nice to have a talk.”


	11. A Private Call

“That was when I knew I wanted to have a command of my own,” Gens leaned on her hand. “That feels like a lifetime ago. I thought the stars would feel closer as I flew toward them but ends up they’re the same distance away no matter where in space you are… unless you’re in danger of falling into one.”

“Yeah, it’s hard to fit your head around the size until you drive it,” Sheridan said. 

“You must travel a lot with your job,” Gens noted. “When did you decide you wanted to be a consultant?”

“I didn’t, really. It kind of just happened.”

“Consulting ‘just happens’? Is it contagious?” 

“Heh,” Sheridan considered. “You know… kind of. Although explaining how won’t help.”

“You’re a bit of a mystery, Tom,” Gens leaned back. “Everything about this mission has gotten as bad as it possibly can, and the first thing you do is call me up and ask me about my life.”

“Just making sure you’re okay.”

She puffed at her dark hair. “I am far from okay. This was my first command… after what happened to the ship, it’s probably going to be my last.”

“Not necessarily. Not if you get the permission they need.”

“But a whole ship...” she sighed. “My ship. I barely got to know her...”

“They can fix her up.”

“If they want to.”

“If they want to.” Sheridan swallowed. If he was still in the position he was when he was alive he could put in a formal request, but there was nothing he could do now. 

“You said you had family in the force,” Gens said. “Anyone I know?”

“Ah, no...” he replied. “No they served during the Earth/Minbari war.”

“Earth/Minbari?” Gens perked up. “Are you related to the president?”

Sheridan staggered a moment. “Distantly. But that’s not the relative I meant.”

“I can see the family resemblance,” she said. “Does it affect you on a job like this? I mean it’s still a personal connection.”

He paused and looked away from the screen. A personal connection… that was putting it lightly. He wished he could tell her the truth about Delenn, and David, and his life on Minbar. He wasn’t allowed to talk to them, but Gens could. She belonged still belonged in this world, but he knew it was too risky. Lorien told him when they left the afterlife that reaching back through the veil was more damaging to the living than it was beneficial to the dead. Besides, Sinclair would kill him. Probably kill him for saying the bit he already had. 

“Having a personal connection does make a difference,” Sheridan said, finally. “Even if I’m not a soldier at this point, it’s like part of me is. I’m human. But that doesn’t mean I’m aggressive to these people.”

She looked skeptical. “If it wasn’t for the Earth/Minbari war, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“That’s true. But look where we’ve come since then.”

“It doesn’t look like we’ve come far from this angle.”

Sheridan slouched in his chair. Gens did the same on her end. 

She stared at her hands. “Thanks, by the way. You and your partner kept us from dying out there. If only I’d followed your instructions from the start.” 

“Renalds was the one sabotaging you. Has he done this before?”

“He’s done it since I took command.” She sighed. “He doesn’t think I deserve the job.”

“If I were to guess I’d think it’s more him assuming HE deserves to do the job. If you ask me, I think you’re proving to be a threat.”

“Hah!” She rolled her eyes. “Don’t lie to make me feel better.”

“I’m serious! You’re young, you’re capable. You could really be something if you believe in yourself.”

She flushed. “I believe in myself! I mean… I used to believe in myself.”

“And you should. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. And it’s tough when your second officer is undermining you. You just gotta learn to listen through it. Every time he says you’re not worthy for the job, what he’s saying is he’s not willing to let you gain experience because once you start learning you’ll surpass him in a heartbeat, and he’s not ready to be irrelevant.”

“He doesn’t have to be irrelevant though,” she said. “He’s not even sixty yet, he can work for another thirty years if he really wants to.” 

“Apparently he doesn’t see it that way.”

Gens studied her hands again. “What should I do about it?”

“That I can’t say.” Sheridan said. “But I trust you to make the right call. You made the right choice on the bridge. You just need to stop listening to Renalds and all of these people trying to intimidate you. That goes for Clerenn, too. She’s in a position where asserting her authority is everything, and you’ve had a lot of experience with people posturing at you. You have to put her at ease but keep your own level of control.”

“That sounds way too difficult to me.”

“It takes some work, but it’s not impossible,” Sheridan said. “I’ve done it a lot in my… this… line of work. You have to see the world from the other person’s perspective and think about their goal. Most the time their drama has nothing to do with you, you’re just a part of their perception at the time. Their minds are always on them.”

“You learned all that being a consultant?”

Sheridan snorted. “I learned it from listening to people fight all the time.”

“Sounds stressful.”

“It can be. But it’s the job.” He shrugged. “Once you get the knack you learn how to handle it.”

“So you think I can handle it?” She raised an eyebrow. “I assume that’s why you’re giving me this pep talk. You’re trying to get me to step up.”

“You said it not me,” he smiled. “If you’re captain enough to handle it.”

“I am if you’re with me.” Gens pressed her lips. Sheridan could see the reflection of the viewscreen in her glasses. He looked so young. She blinked and looked him in the eye. “Are you married, Tom?”

Fear lanced through Sheridan’s body, lighting the nerves along his spine. He didn’t mean to flirt with her. He loved Delenn, but Thomas Sheridan wasn’t married to Delenn. He didn’t have to be married at all. Gens didn’t want him to be. He’s lied to her so far. She trusts him. She’d do whatever he said.

A prickle of illness needled his stomach. He cleared his throat and shifted weight. “Yes. Yes I am.”

“Oh,” Gens deflated. “Are they back on Earth?”

“No. She’s an expat.”

Gens’ cheeks reddened. She looked up at him with a sweet smile. “She’s a lucky woman.” 

A siren blared. The lights in their cabins winked out, replaced with spotlights at the center of the room. Gens spun in her chair. “What’s happening?”

A Minbari message echoed overhead. Sheridan wet his lips and translated. “Weapons systems primed.”

“Our backup? Already?”

“No, it’s too soon.”

“Could it be someone else – ” Gens’ feed winked out, along with the lights of Sehridan’s room. He stood up as the door burst open. 

_“Captain!”_ A rippling voice, both familiar and unfamiliar simultaneously, called him from the door in ancient Andrenato. 

Sheridan frowned through the darkness. “Who is it?” 

“Us!” Sinclair called back. “Something’s happened.” 

Sinclair and Neroon waited in the darkened hall. The image of Neroon’s pointed warrior-style headbone poked out of the religious shape of his host’s. He was younger than Sheridan had ever seen him, which made it easier for Sheridan to dismiss the man’s past with Delenn to the corner of his mind. 

Sheridan stumbled out into the dim emergency lights. “Are we under attack?” 

“You have to speak his language,” Sinclair said and then to Neroon. _”Are we under attack?”_

_“Yes.”_ Neroon said. _“By ourselves.”_

_“Ourselves?”_

_“The defense grid is pivoting,”_ he said. _“Follow me.”_

Sheridan gestured to the other doors. _“Should we take them?”_

_“I’m not even taking you.”_ He winked. _“I’ll explain it on the way.”_


	12. Red Alert

Sheridan had a difficult history with Neroon. He was Warrior Caste, for one – at least until the last ten seconds of his life. He changed allegiance in a final act of redemption that saved Delenn and rocked Minbari society to its core. For all intents and purposes, the Neroon leading them pal-mel through the darkened station was someone Sheridan had never met before. He appeared closer to twenty-five years old, was dressed in the religious equivalent of an industrial jumpsuit and talking to Sinclair like they’d known each other for years. His host body was wide eyed, almost manic, but Neroon, inside, had a mission in mind. 

_”He killed power to the lower level, but I knocked out power to the residential wing,”_ he said. _“To cut down on complications. Clerenn and the seniors are trapped in the star chamber but there are plenty of monks in the halls, so we have to hurry and beat them down there.”_

_“Can you tell us what is happening?”_ Sinclair asked.

_“If you follow me.”_

Sheridan and Sinclair struggled to keep up through the halls of the station, the heels of their dress shoes clacking on polished floors. Neroon levered open a wall panel and slipped into the service channels of the ancient ship. 

_”There are no cameras in here.”_ Neroon said, out of breath. _“One of your people escaped from barracks.”_

Sheridan wheezed half a snort. _”How in Valen’s name did he do that?”_

Sinclair spared a glance over his shoulder. “Excuse you.”

“Sorry, Jeff, I don’t know how to curse in ancient Minbari.”

_“I’m not sure how. The guard at the door just opened it for him. Then he ran straight for the forward array mount.”_

_“So why get us?”_ Sheridan asked.

_“Because Lennier is in the medical wing and I can’t speak English.”_ He ducked a crossbeam and headed down a steep embankment. _“This place is falling apart inside. Clerenn doesn’t care as long as the lights are on but my team is overworked down here.”_

He navigated the narrow, cluttered corridors expertly, taking the two humans down floor after floor. Sheridan panted, his muscles screaming complaint. He hadn’t run any marathons in the afterlife but in the month he’d been dead he’d forgotten the agony of low oxygen and high lactic acid. And exhaustion. Exhaustion was awful. He was grateful to stop and pant as Neroon wedged a crowbar in the crack of a heavier door. 

Sinclair patted Sheridan on the back. “You need to exercise more.”

“When? I just got this body yesterday.” 

“Shh!” Neroon hissed and wedged himself through the gap he’d pried open. The hall outside was dark, lit only by the exterior lights shining in through the clear walkway connecting the bulk of the station to the exterior ring. The guards that blocked the doors previously were no where to be seen, and at the end of the long suspended hallway was a mousy little man in an Earthforce uniform standing in front of an elaborate mechanical console.

Sheridan scrambled out after Neroon. “Monroe!”

Monroe spun around, panicked, before kicking the console and sprinting out of sight along the exterior ring. 

Sinclair shoved Sheridan aside and took off up the walkway. “Stop private! That’s an order!”

Sirens started as Sheridan, Neroon, and Sinclair raced along the outer tube. The transparent walls of the path provided sweeping views of the seedlike station and surrounding weapons ring, the derelict Madisonville against and expanding starfield, and massive intraspace cannons as they rotated inward toward the monastery. The pop and scream of their motion reverberated through the metal halls. 

Neroon slammed against the console instead of slowing down. _“He’s locked the controls!”_

Sinclair looked over the dials and lights. _”Can you fix them?_

_”It’d be suicide not to try.”_

Sherdian spotted Monroe racing up the left-hand corridor. He was still winded from the trip to the ring, but relaunched his sprint, his footfalls pounding in time with the clanking machinery. The ring was obviously a newer installation, built of mesh metal and steel instead of crystal and plate armor. He could imagine the Honored Ground mail ordering this weapons installation and fitting it to their station like a hoop skirt. Red lights – not very Minbari – rotated overhead, as the sirens gained volume and mingled with the tones of distant shouting. 

Another weapons console became visible around the curve ahead. Monroe stopped in front of it, banging buttons and switches in earnest. 

“Hey!” Sheridan shouted. 

Monroe turned briefly and threw up his hand. A pang stabbed in Sheridan’s head, arching through like a bullet, leaving stripes of white pain. The arrest tripped him up, slamming him face down on the walkway, which he experienced three more times as his brain seized on the memory. His perception settled back into temporal rhythm as Monroe continued to bang the console.

A mindburst – not a strong one, but it meant Monroe was at least a P5. Was his telepathy in his paperwork? Sheridan’s mind throbbed with the effort of remembering. 

“Monroe...” Sheridan grunted. “Don’t do this. You’ll kill us.”

“I’m only following orders.”

Another bank of cannons started moving. Sheridan grunted and used the wall to right himself. “Renalds?”

“An eye for an eye.”

“Is that really it?”

“I can’t talk to you right now, Mr. Sheridan. The guards are coming.”

The shouts and stomping converged on their location as a dozen Tha’domo guards arrived with fighting pikes extended. Two came forward with an assault rifles leveled, shouting in Minbari.

“They told you to stop,” Sheridan translated. “And they mean it.”

“I don’t care.” Monroe raised his hand again. 

Sheridan lashed out. “No! Don’t!”

Another mindburst struck one of the gunman. The Minbari reeled and fell to his knees. His companion didn’t waste a moment squeezing the trigger of his weapon. Laserblasts pierced Monroe in a line from hip to shoulder. The private fell against the console and ragdolled to the floor, blue eyes stuck wide open and lifeless. The monks swarmed the console around his body to undo what he had done. 

Two monks grabbed Sheridan’s arms, pikes pressed into his flanks but he was not interested in escape. He watched the cannon array twisting above them, stomach making anxious flips as it locked in place facing directly at the body of the station. The firing plasma heated, glowing a lavender blue in the half-dozen mouths. The Minbari slammed their palms into buttons and the console finally switched off. The lights of the cannons cooled. Sheridan exhaled.

A quarter of the way down the ring, the forward cannon array discharged and the top of the Honored Ground station exploded in white light.


End file.
